


Unbreakable Bonds

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A tale of three bonded pairs, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon Rewrite, F/F, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-07-13 00:57:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 47,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7131617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From as far back as she could remember, Sansa knew her parents’ soulmarks as well as their faces. </p><p>Sansa had always known that their marks didn’t match, but it had taken her years to understand what that meant.</p><p>#</p><p>Jon's fingers ran over his mark reverently, if with a little sorrow.</p><p>A grey wolf and a dragon with obvious Targaryen coloring? What else could it mean but that his soulmate was a Targaryen.</p><p>The problem was, all the Targaryens were dead. Their children murdered in their sleep.</p><p>#</p><p>Jaime's soulmark was a solitary sword with a roaring lion carved into the hilt. It was a queer mark. Most marks were a representation of the bonded pair. There was no other person in his mark, though. It was just him.</p><p>The gods made him to be selfish, then, so why not be selfish?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this story will be a major undertaking, but I only want to do it if interest is high enough so please let me know what you think!

From as far back as she could remember, Sansa knew her parents’ soulmarks as well as their faces. 

Her mother’s mark was a weirwood, it’s branches spreading out into a wide circle, red leaves stark against the white bark, a bright blue stream circling it’s squat base.

Her father’s mark was a raven with its wings stretched wide in flight, eyes a deep purple that almost glowed.

Sansa had always known that their marks didn’t match, but it had taken her years to understand what that meant.

“Why didn’t you marry your soulmate?” she had asked once, stroking the inside of her own bare left wrist. She couldn’t have been more than nine at the time, anxious for the day that her own soulmark would appear.

She twisted her head around to look at her mother, just in time to see the sad look that descended over her beautiful face a second before it smoothed into an emotionless mask.

“It’s not the Southern way,” Catelyn had told her, turning Sansa’s head so that she could continue her braiding. “They do not pine over their soulmates like Northerners do.”

Sansa had frowned at that. The way her mother talked about Southerners and Northerners always confused her. Catelyn had away about talking about Northerners has if she was simultaneously one of them and set apart from them.

“But father married you?” she had pressed, still confused.

“Yes, he did,” her mother had replied simply, and left it at that.

Of course, Nan could always be counted on to give her a truthful answer. Truthful and blunt.

“Your mother’s soulmate was your Uncle Brandon,” she had explained with a brusque wave of her hand. “Your father married her after your uncle died in order to secure her family’s support in the Rebellion.”

Sansa had been surprised at that. “You mean… he didn’t love her?” she had asked, shocked at the idea. 

Bad enough that they weren’t soulmates, but they hadn’t even be in _love_!

“Few Southerners marry for love,” Nan had replied derisively. “Marriage is about politics in the South. Us Northerners, though, we understand the meaning of soulmates.”

“Not all soulmates marry, though,” she had said, defending her mother’s family even though she had never met any of them. After all, her mother was a Southerner before she came to Winterfell.

“Well, of course not,” Nan had shot back, as if the idea were ludicrous. “Only a man and a woman can wed, and soulmates are not always a man and a woman. And when they aren’t, marriages must be arranged carefully, for children.”

“But what about the Targaryens? They’d marry their siblings and find their soulmates and have children by both!” Sansa had hissed, scandalized at the thought.

Nan had snorted. “If you ask me, the children they had with their wives weren’t nearly as legitimate as those they had with their soulmates, no matter what those idiot septons may say.”

“None of them were bastards though,” Sansa had pointed out, whispering the word just in case Robb was around. Robb didn’t like the word, mostly because it was often sneered at Jon in disdain. Jon didn’t like it, either, but Jon didn’t scold her for saying it.

“Of course not!” Nan had cried. “The old gods created soulmates as two halves of a whole. Soulmates are married at birth in the eyes of the old gods. Soulmates can’t have bastard children with each other.”

“But what if my soulmate is a peasant?” she had asked petulantly, raising her real concern. “What would happen then?”

“That is something you’d have to discuss with your father,” she had replied with a shrug. “Or your brother, should your father die before then.”

It was still a fear that plagued her mind now, even years later. All she ever wanted to be in life was a lady like her mother. To rule graciously at her lord’s side, offering counsel and giving him children. But she also wanted him to _love_ her. Her and _only_ her.

Her wrist remained steadfastly blank, though. How was she supposed to know who her soulmate was without a mark?

She knew that the typical age to receive your soulmark was fifteen. That was how old Jon had been when he got his. Not that he had let _her_ see it. Robb, of course, had been allowed to inspect it to his heart’s content. Even _Arya_ had gotten to see. But _she_ hadn’t.

Of course, Sansa had never really _asked_ either. She had feigned disinterest, concentrating instead of on the story Bran was entertaining little Rickon with when Jon had shyly told Robb over breakfast that soulmark had come in overnight.

That had been two years ago. Sansa would be turning fourteen soon. In all probability, she would have at least another year until her soulmark came in. Robb’s, she knew, _still_ hadn’t come in, despite his seventeenth name-day having came and went.

What if she fell in love before her mark appeared? How would she know it was _real_?

“Sansa, why are you sulking in here?” Septa Mordane asked, appearing in the doorway of the library and scowling at her. “The king’s company was spotted on the horizon. Hurry up so that you can be presentable for them!”

She sighed but did as she was told. It wasn’t that she wasn’t excited to see the royal family, but what did they matter to _her_?

 

#

 

Jon kept his face perfectly impassive as he watched his family step forward to great the royals. Theon smirked at him from his place near Robb’s side. Jon seethed inwardly at that. That was _his_ place. _He_ was supposed to be the one standing next to Robb. Not Theon Greyjoy.

Theon was highborn, though. The son and heir to the Lord of the Iron Islands. Jon was just a lowly bastard. And though both were outsiders of the Stark family, _Theon_ , at least, wasn’t ordered to stay out of sight around the royal family.

Ordered by his father, no less.

If the order had come from Lady Stark, it wouldn’t have hurt so much. Lady Stark had always resented him, resented what he _represented_. He was proof that her husband had lain with another woman. She may have stomached it better if his mother had been Lord Stark’s soulmate, or if she herself had been secure in the knowledge that _she_ was his soulmate, but Jon Snow was a constant reminder that she had been married to the wrong Stark, a Stark that had no reason to be faithful to her.

Not now that the Rebellion was over, at least.

Jon brought his hands behind his back and brushed his right thumb over his soulmark, a nervous habit he had developed whenever he felt particularly bitter about his precarious place at Winterfell.

He was a man fully grown, having celebrated his seventeenth name-day just a month prior. Lady Stark, he knew, had been pressured his father to send him away, arguing that he was a man now and that it was time that he stood on his own. She would have him sent far from Winterfell, perhaps to become a squire, she had suggested once. 

Thankfully, his father had not yet bowed to her will, but Jon was sure that even Lord Stark couldn’t stand against the will of Catelyn Stark for long. She had allowed Jon to spend his childhood at Winterfell, even deigning to allow him to grow up with her children as if he were one of them, but he knew that her tolerance would only go so far.

His father was sure to yield eventually. After all, Jon was just a bastard, and one by a mother that Ned Stark didn’t even bother to speak of. Jon wished he could believe that it was because he had loved her too much, but he knew that couldn’t be the truth.

Whoever his mother had been, she hadn’t been his father’s soulmate. And only Ned’s soulmate could have induced him to love outside of his family and duty.

Which left Jon more likely than not a bastard of some whore that Lord Stark had took comfort in, with honor alone demanding that he take the child and ensure he was raised well.

He tried to let his spirits be raised a bit when Robb glanced over at him, blue eyes clearly displacing his displeasure at Jon not being with them, but he let himself stay in his cloud of gloom. It wasn’t like Robb could save him from his bleak future. Though his brother would one day be Lord of Winterfell, that day was ages away. Jon would likely have already died in the service of some lord or another by then.

After all, bastards were often the most disposable of knights.

Hours later, he was still in a black mood, trying his best to keep his eyes away from the main table as everyone feasted in the king’s honor. Robb tried to catch his eye at least twice, but he kept his head down, focused on his meal. He stretched his left hand out to reach his goblet, frowning at his sleeve rode up a bit and his soulmark caught his eye.

He brought his hand back slowly before pushing the sleeve up more, fingers running over the mark reverently, if with a little sorrow.

On his wrist, curled up tightly with a smoky grey wolf inside a wreath of blue winter roses, was a white dragon. His skin was so pale that the white was barely visible, but the faint blue outline was clear enough, as were the glowing violet eyes.

Robb and Arya had both been impressed with the mark when he had first shown it to them, until they all realized the implications.

A wolf and a dragon? What else could it mean? Jon, as a Stark bastard, was obviously the wolf. The dragon with the violet eyes was easily ascertainable as well. After all, even the coloring gave it away, what with white blond hair and violent eyes being known Targaryen traits.

The problem was, all the Targaryens were dead. Their children murdered in their sleep.

“Jon! Why are you all the way back here?” a familiar voice greeted him, as a body dropped down in the seat next to him.

His head snapped up as he hastily pulled his sleeve down, smiling as he recognized the man striding towards him. “Uncle Benjen,” he greeted with a nod. “Father thought it might be better if I were to avoid the royal family.”

Benjen nodded sagely at that, seeming to understand something that Jon did not. “I can see why he might think that,” he replied with a nod before smirking at Jon. “If it makes you feel any better, it doesn’t look your father is having such a good time so you must not be missing much.”

“The Queen seems displeased as well,” he remarked. He hesitated a moment before commenting. “The Queen doesn’t have a soulmark.” 

Benjen looked at him in surprise before glancing up at Cersei Baratheon. Her left wrist was covered in a thick gold bracelet, as was the custom of highborn ladies who did not marry their soulmates. “How do you know?”

Jon nodded towards the bracelet. “It’s loose and slips down when she raises her hand. See?” he pointed out, just as Cersei raised her left hand for more wine. The bracelet did indeed slip down just enough so that a portion of her bare wrist was visible. “I thought everyone had soulmarks?”

“You have a keen eye, Jon. We could use a man like you on the Wall,” Benjen remarked. Jon’s heart leapt at that. The Wall. He had thought about following in his uncle’s footsteps before, fixated on the idea that the men of the Night’s Watch were all brothers and bastards were not treated any differently from highborns or peasants. He was just about to ask his uncle if he could return with him to the Wall when Benjen spoke up again.

“But no,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “Soulmarks only appear if your soulmate is alive when it’s time for them to come in.”

Jon started at that. Because of the dragon in his mark, he had assumed that his soulmate was a long-dead Targaryen child. He couldn’t help the hope that surged inside his chest at that.

This meant that his soulmate was _alive_ , or had at least been two years ago.

His eyes drifted of their own accord to the main table, where Robb had leaned over to whisper something to Arya that made her swat at him. Maybe he didn’t belong to the people he had wanted to belong to his entire life, but he belonged to _someone_. And someone belonged to _him_.

All thoughts of taking the black flew out of his head for a moment before he scoffed at himself in his head.

_You’re a bastard_ , he scolded himself for even thinking he could be anything else. _What kind of life could you give your soulmate?_

Who knew who the dragon in his mark represented? If it _were_ someone connected to the House Targaryen, they certainly wouldn’t want anything to do with a bastard of House Stark. Not only did he have no inheritance to speak of, he was also the son of one of the leaders of the rebellion that overthrew the Dragonkings.

No, better to go somewhere he could at least be of use.

“Let me go back to the Wall with you,” he pleaded, tearing his eyes from Robb, who he had been unconsciously watching the entire time.

Benjen shook his head. “Your father wouldn’t allow it. You’re too young. You need to experience the world a bit more before you give it all up to take the black.”

“What’s there in this world for someone like me?” Jon spat bitterly.

“I know for a fact you have a soulmark under there,” his uncle reminded, nodding towards his covered wrist.

“I’ve got nothing to offer a soulmate,” he replied with a sigh. “They won’t want me.”

“Shouldn’t you let them decide?” Benjen asked with a displeased look. 

“My family doesn’t want me, why should my soulmate?” Jon snapped before standing abruptly from the table and storming off. He paused for just a moment at the door and glanced up at the main table, only to see Robb watching him with naked concern in his eye. He left quickly after that.

The concern just made him angrier, knowing that Robb would probably forget all about him once he left. Why wouldn’t he? Theon was sure to slide easily into the slot Jon left open at Robb’s side. And once Robb’s mark appeared, he would move heaven and earth to find his soulmate, devoting himself entirely to the lucky man or woman once he found them.

Jon couldn’t help but wince at that as he shut himself into his chambers with Ghost. He had to leave before that happened. Maybe he was selfish, but for his entire life, he had always been Robb’s first choice for companionship, a fact that had driven Theon insane with jealousy. 

Jon didn’t think he could bear that position being usurped by the other man’s soulmate.

 

#

 

The morning after the feast in the king’s honor, Robb was happy that that the royals decided to take break their fast on their own. He had missed Jon at his side last night. He was happy, then, when his brother slipped into the seat next to him. He frowned, though, when he noticed Jon’s gloomy mood.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, his concern from last night coming back full force. “When I am Lord of Winterfell, you will never be excluded from my table.”

Jon shot him a wan smile but shook his head. “That’s not it.”

Robb frowned but before he could inquire further, his mother and father walked into the room and sat down at the table.

“Your father has news for you,” Catelyn announced, glancing around the table to ensure that all of her children paid attention. Robb noticed that she looked particularly satisfied when her eyes fell on Jon, but he didn’t really know what to make of that.

“I have decided to accept the king’s offer to become his Hand,” his father informed that seriously. “When the royal company departs, I will ride south to King’s Landing with them, along with Sansa, Bran, and Arya. Your mother will stay behind to govern Winterfell, and Robb and Rickon will remain with her.”

“I don’t want to go south!” Arya protested immediately. “Why can’t I stay here?”

“You should learn the ways of a Southern court,” Ned told her firmly. “Besides, I’m sure Sansa will appreciate your company.” The twin looks of disbelief on Sansa and Arya’s face forced Robb to stifle a laugh. “She is to be betrothed to Prince Joffrey.”

“No!” Sansa cried immediately. Despite the animosity between the two sisters, Arya, too, looked horrified. “Father, I _can’t_!”

“It is a smart match,” Catelyn answered her instead. “You will be queen one day.”

“But what about her soulmate?” Arya demanded.

“Sansa can still bond with her soulmate if she’s married,” her mother explained in exasperation. “It is a common practice.”

Robb frowned at that. It was a common practice in the South, but it was rarely done in the North. In the North, it was usually done only when bonded soulmates were of the same sex. Even then, it wasn’t necessarily expected.

“Father,” Sansa pleaded, finding her voice once more.

Ned only sighed. “Sansa, I’m sorry. Your mother is right, it is a good match. However,” he assured her, shooting a sharp look to Catelyn. From that look alone, Robb knew that his father didn’t agree wholeheartedly with the betrothal. “I intend to extract a promise from the king that _if_ you find your soulmate and wish to break the betrothal, that will be your right.”

Their mother didn’t look thrilled at that, but she did not protest. “As for Jon,” she said instead, giving her husband’s bastard a smile that Robb did not like, “he will be going with your Uncle Benjen to join the Night’s Watch.”

“What?!” Robb cried, head snapping to the side to stare at Jon, begging him to tell him it wasn’t so. He could see Theon smirking on the other side of his brother, and a shot of anger ran through him. Jon, though, just gave him a sad look before nodding at their father.

“Thank you, Father, for allowing me to do this,” he said.

The look in Ned’s eyes told him that it was not a decision that he wanted to make. “You don’t have to do this, Jon,” he told him seriously.

Catelyn narrowed his eyes. “He cannot stay here,” she argued. “And you refuse to take him to King’s Landing with you. If he does not go to the Night’s Watch, he must go somewhere else.”

For the first time in his life, Robb felt hatred towards his mother. She had angered him in the past, as all parents did their children he was sure, and he had always known she held little love for Jon, but he had never thought her to be so mean and spiteful as to send his brother away when he had nowhere else to go.

His blood boiled at the thought.

He looked to Jon, wanting to know that the other felt as angry as he did, but Jon just looked resigned. That just made him _angrier_.

Robb pushed away from the table and excused himself harshly.

It was bad enough that the world treated Jon like he was worth nothing. It hurt even more to realize that Jon seemed to believe it at times.

 

#

 

“You should be Hand of the King,” Cersei stated as she lounged back on his white cloak. Even without a stitch of clothing on her, she appeared queenly.

He licked his lips before stretching out on top of her, both of them groaning as he devoured her moth with his own. His lips traveled from her mouth to her neck, the taste of her skin headier than any wine to him.

“Stark is dangerous,” she continued breathlessly. “Robert loves the man like a brother.”

“The king hates his brothers,” he quipped, leaving a trail of kisses down her left arm to nibble at her bare wrist. He liked not having to share her love with anyone. It was selfish of him, he knew, but he was a selfish man.

His own soulmark was a solitary sword with a roaring lion carved into the hilt. It was a queer mark. Most marks were a representation of the bonded pair. There was no other person in his mark, though. It was just him.

The gods made him to be selfish, then, so why not be selfish?

“He’ll _listen_ to him,” Cersei snapped, snatching her hand away and glaring at him.

“Lord Stark is an honorable man,” Jaime said with a roll of his eyes, grabbing her thighs and hoisting them up. “Honorable men like Stark are more predictable than ambitious ones like Robert’s brothers or Petyr Baelish.”

They both moaned as he sank into her, gasping as they thrust against each other. A loud gasp, though, startled them out of their lovemaking, and both their heads snapped towards the window, just in time to see one of the Stark boys drop from sight.

“He saw us!” Cersei told him, eyes demanding that he do something immediately.

Jaime sighed as he stood and walked towards the window, peering down at the boy who was clutching at the ledge with both hands. He reached down and hauled him onto the window sill.

“How old are you, boy?” he questioned. He was young, he could tell, but he was terrible at guessing the age of children. It was possible the boy didn’t understand anything he had heard or saw.

“Ten,” the boy answered, looking a little less scared now that he wasn’t hanging off the tower by his fingertips.

“He _saw_ us,” Cersei said again, her meaning clear.

Jaime looked back her, not thrilled at the idea of killing a ten-year-old, but what did it matter? If the boy talked, Jaime was fairly certain that he wouldn’t have his head for very long.

He shook his head in disgust. “The things I do for love,” he remarked contemptuously, shoving the boy out of the window.

 

#

 

It had been nearly a fortnight since Bran’s fall. In the aftermath, Jon had managed to avoid all of his brothers and sisters. Of course, he hadn’t _wanted_ to avoid Bran. He wanted more than anything to visit his younger brother’s sickbed, but Lady Stark had kept constant vigil at his bedside, not allowing him a moment to sneak in and see his brother.

He would have to brave the room regardless of her presence today. He was set to leave with his uncle in the morning. His father and sisters were leaving to, riding to King’s Landing with the king’s party despite Bran’s injuries.

He was barely awake that morning, though, before someone was pounding insistently at his door. He frowned, not knowing who would disturb him this early.

He opened the door, and didn’t have a chance to even recognize that it was Robb at his door before his brother was barging past him and shutting the door firmly behind him.

“I’ve got something to show you,” Robb told him urgently, thrusting his left wrist towards him.

Jon blinked dumbly for a moment before glancing down at Robb’s wrist. The mark didn’t register in his mind when he first looked at it, and he looked up to ask Robb what this was about before he realized what he had seen.

He grabbed Robb’s hand and looked more closely at his wrist, but the mark hadn’t changed.

With shaking hands, he moved his own left wrist so that it was side by side with Robb’s, and his breath caught in his throat.

They were identical.

“How…?” he managed to choke out, looking up at Robb in confusion. “We’re brothers.”

Siblings were never soulmates. _Never_. 

“I don’t know,” Robb told him, looking just as lost as he was as he gazed down at their matching wrists. He looked up suddenly with a blazing fire in his blue eyes after a moment. “But you are _not_ joining the Night’s Watch. You _can’t_. Please…” The fire in him had burned out by the last word, and he was left giving Jon a pleading look. “We belong together.”

Joy like he had never known filled Jon’s heart at the words. He smiled as he threaded their fingers together. “We do,” he agreed. “I won’t leave.”

Robb beamed at him as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “Good.”

tbc…


	2. Chapter Two

Jon followed Robb to their father’s chamber hesitantly, but he didn’t protest. Not when he was sure the Lady Catelyn was still keeping vigil at Bran’s bedside, which meant there was no danger of her being in or near their destination. Still, with the sun having just peaked over the horizon, he wasn’t sure their father would be awake yet.

Robb, though, determined to get answers, didn’t think twice before knocking firmly on the door with his left hand while his right held onto Jon’s hand tightly.

It still amazed him to see his own soulmark peeking out from under Robb’s sleeves as he raised his hand to knock. 

It was apparent that Ned had already been awake when he opened the door, as he was already in his trousers and tunic, though his feet were bare and he was not wearing his customary jerkin. They must have knocked just as he was dressing.

He was puzzled to see them at this early hour. “Robb? Jon? Is something wrong?” he asked in concern.

“My mark came in last night,” Robb told him seriously, lifting his wrist to show him.

Ned barely glanced at it before sighing heavily and waving them in. Jon exchanged a look with Robb before he followed his newfound soulmate inside. Ned didn’t seem surprised by this turn of events.

Their father shut the door behind them and turned to look at them seriously. “I was afraid one of you would be Jon’s soulmate when he first showed me his mark,” he admitted, shaking his head sadly.

“And you were going to send him to the Wall anyway?” Robb all but growled, to Jon’s complete shock, tightening his grip on Jon’s hand. Robb had never taken such a disrespectful tone to their father. _Never_.

Jon was sure Ned was going to rebuke him, but he just looked _guilty_ instead. “Being appointed Hand of the King wasn’t in the plans,” he explained with a pleading note in his voice. “I was supposed to have more time to find a better option for Jon.”

“So you just decided to become Hand and send Jon away to rot?” Robb asked coldly. Jon wasn’t quite sure that was fair, as it had been _his_ decision to join the Night’s Watch. “What were you going to tell me when my mark came in and I realized my soulmate had taken an oath to forsake me?”

Jon felt awful that he had been _considering_ taking the Night’s Watch Oath, knowing it meant disavowing all other bonds, including the one with his soulmate. When it had been some nameless person he didn’t know, it was easy to tell himself that they were better off without him, but this was _Robb_. How could he possibly swear an oath to forsake _Robb_?

“I didn’t have a choice in becoming Hand,” Ned answered, face hardening a bit into a bitter expression Jon had never seen on him before. “Jon cannot come to King’s Landing with me, and your mother made it clear that he could not remain here.”

Put that way, Jon could understand why his father had been ready to allow him to take the black. A bastard in the royal court was a ridiculous notion, and Lady Stark’s hatred for him was no secret.

“You could have told Mother what you suspected,” Robb argued, not backing down.

“Your mother would not have understood my suspicions without knowing the full story. Without knowing who Jon really is,” their father said in a hushed voice, as if afraid to be overheard even here, in his own chambers. As if the truth were too terrible to speak too loudly.

“What do you mean, who I am?” Jon asked, fearful of the answer. “I’m no one.” Robb glared at him at that but he ignored. “I’m just a bastard.”

An hour ago, that admission would have hurt. With his father’s solemn eyes on him and the sudden foreboding mood surrounding them, that simple truth and Robb’s hand in his were the only things keeping him grounded.

“No, Jon,” Ned told him. “No, you’re not. You were born from a bonded union. You are a true-born son.”

It was something that Jon had always longed to hear.A childhood dream come true. He was sure every bastard wanted his parents to reveal that they were soulmates, that he was a legitimate son and would be treated as one from that day forward. But it was just a dream. It never came _true_. What father would allow his true-born son to be treated like a bastard if he weren’t one?

So why had _his_ father allowed it?

“But not your true-born son,” Robb said suddenly. Jon’s eyes widened at that, looking between the two in disbelief. “Because we can’t be brothers. Brothers are never each other’s soulmates. Not even half-brothers. That’s how we know the gods revile incest.”

Jon knew all of that. He just hadn’t made the connection that it meant he _couldn’t_ be Ned’s son.

He felt like his world had been turned upside out, the ground ripped right from underneath him. He was grateful for Robb’s tight grip on his hand. No matter who he was, it wasn’t important. Because no matter who he was, he was _Robb’s_. “Then whose son am I?” he demanded to know, sounding much more confident than he felt.

Ned sighed. “My sister Lyanna’s,” he confessed reluctantly, hanging his head for a moment before raising his eyes to Jon’s. “She died in childbirth, and made me promise to do everything in my power to protect you. She knew your life would be in danger from the moment you were born.”

All he felt was confusion. He looked helplessly to Robb, who looked just as lost as he was, though Jon could read the fear in his blue eyes.

“Why?” Robb asked, head snapping to look at his father, steel in his voice. “Why is Jon in danger?”

Ned leveled them with a serious gaze, eyes glancing at the door as if worried someone could be lurking outside. It was something Jon would never even consider. Everyone inside of Winterfell was loyal to House Stark, right?

Then with a sick feeling he remembered that there were many people currently residing in Winterfell loyal to either House Baratheon or House Lannister.

“This does not leave this room. No other living soul knows this and it _must_ stay that way to ensure Jon’s safety,” Ned warned before taking a fortifying breath. “Lyanna’s soulmate, and Jon’s father, was Rhaegar Targaryen,” he revealed in a low voice.

Robb gasped while Jon just stared, dumbfounded, at their father. No. Not their father. Not _his_ father. His father was a Targaryen. _The_ Targaryen. The former Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. That made him…

“Jon’s the true heir to the Iron Throne,” Robb whispered in awe. The opposite of awe was building in Jon’s stomach.

Dread.

“No,” Ned said sharply. “Robert is the king, and Joffrey is his heir apparent. The Targaryens were defeated and their dynasty broken. To say otherwise is treason.”

“So is harboring Targaryen heirs,” Jon murmured, realizing exactly why his true parentage had been hidden. If it were ever known, House Stark would be labelled traitors.

Ned nodded seriously. “I couldn’t let Robert kill my sister’s son like he had the other Targaryen children,” he said, sorrow heavy in his voice. “And I couldn’t allow anyone else to bear the burden of that dangerous knowledge. Not even your mother,” he added, looking at Robb.

“What do we do now?” Robb asked him, sounding lost. “We’re bonded. Even if we have no ceremony or celebration to proclaim it, we _are_. Everyone will know we are not brothers. We won’t be able to hide it. I _refuse_ to hide it,” he continued, a flash of fire in his eyes as he stepped closer to Jon. “Jon will not be my dirty secret. I will not send him from my side to hide in the shadows.”

“No,” his father answered with a shake of his head. “I did not think you would, and I doubt it would work if you tried. Jon will no longer be able to hide as my bastard. We will need invent a new cover for Jon to keep him safe.”

Jon could tell from Ned’s expression that the words tasted sour to his tongue. That the man was willing to lie for him despite his strong sense of honor lifted his heart. Even if Ned wasn’t the man who had sired him, he was still his _father_.

“Give me until midday before telling anyone else,” Ned said, looking weary. “And show _no one_ your marks. The wolf and the dragon… it is too obvious.”

 

#

 

Sansa narrowed her eyes as Robb and Jon sat down at the breakfast table. While it wasn’t unusual for them to come in together, it wasn’t exactly normal either. Robb, she knew, slept later than Jon, who was often seen in the training yard at dawn practicing his swordsmanship. From the alert look in her brothers’ eyes, though, she could see that they had both been up for a while. Stranger still, neither Grey Wind nor Ghost were on their heels.

What were they up to, she wondered in slight disapproval, slipping a sausage under the table to Lady.

Theon looked particularly displeased, though, at the fact that they had entered together. “Saying your goodbyes?” he asked with a cruel smirk at Jon.

Sansa frowned. That was unnecessarily mean. She may not have been as close to Jon as her other siblings, but that didn’t mean she wanted him to go the Wall. Septa Mordane may have stressed how noble and honorable the duties of the Night’s Watch were, but Sansa knew that most of the men there were criminals wishing to escape punishment for their crimes.

She could understand why her mother didn’t want her father’s bastard son at Winterfell when Ned was likely to be away for at _least_ a year, but why did Jon have to go to the Wall? Sansa was sure it was an awful place, even if her Uncle Benjen was there.

Jon ignored Theon, but Robb glared at him. “Jon isn’t going to the Wall,” he told him with a frosty note in his voice as he sat down.

Theon glanced at Jon with triumphant in his eyes before he pasted an understanding mask on his face. Sansa frowned again at that, but Robb was too focused on his food to notice.

“You can deny it all you want, Robb,” he said with false sympathy. “But your lord father said—”

“Father changed his mind,” Robb cut him off curtly.

“Is that true?” Arya asked eagerly, leaning forward in her seat to look at Jon. “Father isn’t sending you to the Wall?”

Jon frowned. “ _Father_ was never sending me to the Wall,” he corrected.

“ _Mother_ was,” Robb muttered bitterly. Sansa stared at him in shock. Robb had never spoke so harshly about their mother.

“I was the one who asked to take the black,” Jon reminded him.

“And now you’re not,” Robb said with finality.

Sansa expected Jon to become sullen at Robb’s tone, but instead a small smile played at his lips as he looked at Robb.

“Are you coming to King’s Landing with us?” she asked Jon. She couldn’t help but selfishly hope that he would. If nothing else, Jon would stop Arya from being so insufferable, and Sansa wouldn’t mind having her older half-brother around to keep Prince Joffrey at a distance.

Not that the prince had been anything but gracious so far, but he kept calling her “his lady” and trying to spend time with her. She didn’t _want_ to spend time with him though. She didn’t want to _marry_ him.

“No, I’m staying at Winterfell,” he replied.

“Lady Stark isn’t going to be happy about that,” Theon warned, stabbing at his food forcefully.

“I’m not happy about it,” Arya pouted. “Won’t you _please_ come with us? I’ll miss you.”

Jon smiled. “I’ll miss you, too, but there’s no place in the king’s court for me.”

“There’s no place in _Winterfell_ for you, either,” Theon reminded him nastily.

“Jon’s place is and always will be by my side, just like mine is by his,” Robb snapped, standing from the table abruptly and glowering at Theon. “Do not speak of things which you know nothing about.”

Robb stormed out of the room at that, Jon staring after him with a stunned look on his face before he followed him hastily.

Rickon seemed to take their departure as an excuse to run off himself, and Theon left in a dark mood a few moments later, leaving only Arya and Sansa at the table.

“Even if Jon isn’t coming with us, I’m glad he’s staying at Winterfell instead of going to the Wall,” her younger sister commented. “Now if only Father would say you don’t have to marry Joffrey, everything would be right again. Well, except for Bran,” she tacked on sadly.

Sansa looked at her in surprise. “You don’t want me to marry Joffrey?”

Arya rolled her eyes at her. “ _You_ don’t want to marry Joffrey,” she replied. “He’s not your soulmate.”

“Southern ladies marry lords that aren’t their soulmates all the time,” she told her, just to be contrary. She wasn’t used to Arya being on her side.

“ _We’re_ not Southern ladies,” Arya shot back.

“Mother was,” she pointed out. “And her and father aren’t soulmates and they love each other.”

Arya narrowed her eyes at her. “So you _do_ want to marry Joffrey?”

“No,” Sansa sighed. “But I don’t have a choice unless my mark comes in _and_ I find my soulmate before I flower, do I?”

She wiped her mouth on her napkin before standing up and leaving, Lady following loyally after her. She was unable to bear talking about it any longer. She wished she could talk to her mother about the betrothal. Joffrey was not set to say his vow of betrothal until they returned to King’s Landing. The Crown Prince could not take such an oath anywhere but the Great Sept, after all. Until he took the oath, the betrothal could still be easily broken. But because her mother had been the one who pushed for the betrothal, Sansa knew that she would also have to be the one to convince her father to break it.

But Mother hadn’t left Bran’s bedside since his fall, and the one time Sansa had tried to broach the subject with her, she had been harshly rebuked.

She retreated to the library, not because she was overly fond of books but because she knew her siblings wouldn’t look for her there. She curled up with Lady on the settee near the fire, the direwolf grown so much that she barely fit anymore.

Sansa had not been sitting there long before she was interrupted by the last person she expected to come across.

“My apologies, my lady,” Tyrion Lannister said with a slight bow after appearing suddenly from behind a shelf. He seemed to be just as startled to see her as she was to see him. “Maester Luwin gave me free reign of the library while I was here, and I must admit that I am surprised to have to share after spending so much time here alone.”

“I will leave you to your reading, my lord,” she replied politely, moving to push Lady off of her lap so that she could stand.

“No, no, no,” the dwarf told her hastily with a shake of his head and a smile. “This is your home. I am the guest. Besides, the room is more than large enough for both of us.”

She gave him a weak smile, grateful he was being so courteous. She had not really expected it from the little man they called the Imp. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Though I must ask what has made you so sad, my lady,” Tyrion continued, moving forward so that he stood with his back to the fire. “Are you sad to be leaving your home?”

“No,” Sansa replied without thinking. She flushed and looked down at Lady, who stared back at her with her large yellow eyes. Perhaps she shouldn’t be so honest with her future betrothed’s uncle. “I mean yes, but—”

“But that is not what troubles you,” he finished for her, giving him a knowing look with his mismatched eyes. “Is it your brother’s condition that grieves you?”

She winced guiltily. She had barely _thought_ of Bran, so caught up in her own misery as she was. 

“I’m going to guess by your face that the answer to that is no,” Tyrion surmised in a surprisingly gentle tone. “Perhaps you are upset about your upcoming betrothal to my nephew?”

Her eyes widened at that. “I have no objection to your nephew,” she said hastily.

“But he is not your soulmate,” the Imp replied.

Sansa frowned. “I don’t know that he’s not my soulmate,” she admitted. “I just don’t know that he _is_.”

Tyrion gave her a sad look. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the prince’s soulmark appeared a year ago, and the Queen quickly located the boy it matched to,” he informed her.

“So the prince is already bonded?” she asked, heart sinking. Her last hope was quickly fading.

“No,” the small lord replied. “My royal sister ensured that the boy took the black and disappeared forever. Rest assured that, if you do marry Joffrey, you won’t have to share your station.”

That didn’t reassure her at all. “Why would the Queen send her son’s soulmate away?” she asked, forgetting for a moment that she speaking to Cersei’s brother, who probably would not take kindly to her questioning his sister’s motives.

Thankfully, the Imp chuckled. “I forget you Northerners put so much stock in soulmates. It really is quite quaint.” Sansa felt a stab of irritation at his condescending tone, but said nothing. “South of the Neck, though, I’m afraid that if a soul bond isn’t a good match, sometimes it is best to disregard it.”

Cold dread pulled in her stomach. Disregard it? She knew that sometimes Southerners didn’t marry their soulmates, but to disregard them completely? What if _her_ soulmate wished to disregard _her_ because she wasn’t a “good match”? Or worse, what if Joffrey told Sansa to disregard her soulmate because they weren’t good enough to be the bonded of a queen?

She stood abruptly, pulling Lady along with her. “I apologize, my lord, but I have forgotten someplace I must be,” she lied badly before rushing out of the library.

How could the South be such a horrible place, she wondered, suddenly looking forward to her upcoming journey even less.

 

#

 

He was pacing in his chambers when Jon knocked at the door. Somewhere between breakfast and him hunting Robb down, Ghost must have found his master because the white direwolf followed him dutifully inside before running to the corner to curl up with Grey Wind.

“You shouldn’t have said that to Theon,” Jon told him as he shut the door behind him.

Robb scowled. “ _He_ should not have said that you have no place here.”

“To be fair, he doesn’t know we are bonded,” he pointed out, stepping closer to Robb with a smile on his face.

“Since when do you want to be _fair_ to _Theon_ ,” he remarked petulantly.

Jon shrugged, reaching out to take Robb’s hand, thumb sliding upward to rub the mark on the inside of his wrist. “I can be fair now that I know he can’t ever take you away from me.”

Robb’s heart clenched. “He _never_ could take me away from you,” he told him in a pained voice, bringing his other hand up to catch Jon’s left. “Even before my mark came in, I knew I didn’t want to be parted from you.”

His soulmate looked down at their joined hands, a furrow between his brow. “Did you ever think of me in that way before?” he asked after a moment, raising his eyes to meet Robb’s uncertainly. 

Robb hesitated in answered, not wanting to lie but also not wanting to hurt Jon’s feelings with the truth. “No,” he admitted finally. “I’ve always wanted you close,” he added quickly. “But I’ve never thought of you… sexually.” He said the word awkwardly, feeling odd even saying it.

Jon gave him a relieved smile at that. “That’s how I’ve always felt as well,” he told him. “You were always my brother. Maybe I should have realized that my need to be close to you went beyond brotherly, but I never thought…”

“I didn’t either,” Robb assured him, daring to move his hands from Jon’s hands to his waist. The other man’s breath stuttered in his throat. “But we know _now_.”

“And do you feel that way towards me now?” Jon asked, swallowing thickly as his own hands settled on Robb’s upper arms.

Robb frowned as he considered the question. There was no doubt that Jon was attractive. A blind man could see that. Sure, he personally had never examined Jon in that manner, but if pressed, he would have acknowledged it. 

And he certainly loved Jon. He had always loved Jon. Maybe it wasn’t in the romantic sense, but he had always loved him more than as just a brother. Jon was his best friend, his constant companion.

Still, it was weird to imagine Jon’s naked body pressed against him, writhing against his own body in a passionate embrace.

Weird, but not unappealing.

“May I kiss you?” he asked in lieu of answering.

Jon’s dark eyes widened at the question but he nodded.

Robb gulped before leaning in slowly, letting his lips hover over Jon’s for a moment before pressing their mouths together. He shivered at the touch, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around Jon’s waist.

He felt Jon shuddered in his arms as his lips slid against his own. Robb didn’t dare deepen the kiss, in truth a little afraid at how much he wanted to.

He reluctantly broke the kiss but stayed close, both of them breathing far heavier than was warranted.

“I think it’s safe to say that I feel that way about you now,” Robb said breathlessly.

Jon smiled before frowning suddenly. “Can… can we ease into things slowly? I’ve never actually…” He flushed at the admission and averted his eyes.

Robb couldn’t help but be pleased. “Neither have I,” he confessed, bringing a hand to Jon’s chin and lifting his face. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he wasn’t exactly ready to take their new relationship much further either.

Maybe they were allowed by the gods and society to share each other’s bodies, but that didn’t mean anyone but them dictated when they took that step.

“We can go at whatever pace we both want,” he promised.

 

#

 

To say that Jaime was pleased to _finally_ be leaving Winterfell would have been an understatement. Why anyone would want to live this far North was beyond him. It was a cold and barren wasteland, if anyone cared to ask his opinion, and he would be glad to put his back to it.

Not that he was particularly looking forward to the grueling journey in front of them, either. It would have been more enjoyable if it weren’t for Cersei’s damnable wheelhouse to slow them down, but he would not dare tell his sister that. Not when she been against the entire household traveling to Winterfell in the first place.

Tonight, they were feasting to send the king and his new Hand off. Jaime sighed as he waved off the serving girl pouring wine. It was hardly a feast without wine, but he knew his head would not thank him in the morning if he drank too much tonight. Horse-riding and hangovers rarely went well together.

Tyrion, sitting next to him, had no such misgivings. Jaime knew for a fact, though, that it was more because he didn’t plan to _stop_ drinking and would avoid any ill side-effects. He wasn’t charged with the protection of the king, though.

Not that Jaime particularly _cared_ about the protection of the king, but he did swear an oath. He was already scorned for breaking his oath to Aerys.

“Do you still insist on your foolish idea to travel to the Wall?” he asked his little brother.

Tyrion shrugged before smirking at him. “Will you miss me brother?”

Jaime snorted, but Tommen leaned over him to answer before he could reply. “I’ll miss you, Uncle!”

It made Jaime frown. His children had never shown as much affection for _him_ as they had for Tyrion. Probably because Tyrion had always been free to show affection to _them_. Jaime had his duties, and it wasn’t like he could exert any claim over them.

He fought down his bitterness over that. He was used to having no claim over anyone.

“Thank you, Tommen,” Tyrion replied, smiling warmly at the boy. His brow furrowed in confusion, though, as he caught sight of something over Jaime’s shoulder. “Is there a reason Ned Stark’s bastard is joining us at the high table tonight? I was under the impression the Starks believed such a thing would insult our delicate sensibilities.”

Jaime turned his head and frowned as he watched Robb Stark and the bastard Jon Snow take their seats at the head table. Even more surprising than the bastard’s presence was the fact that he was seated at the Heir of Winterfell’s side, above Ned Stark’s other children. He was sure if Lady Stark had been present, she would be livid, but she had yet to leave her son’s sickbed.

He determinedly refused to feel any remorse for the boy’s fate. It was a pity, but it was necessary. He hoped the boy died, or at least had no memory of what occurred. It would be a shame to have crippled him for life for nothing.

Lord Stark stood as soon as everyone had arrived and called for the hall’s attention.

“Your Graces,” he said respectfully before addressing the room. “Honored guests, I know we have gathered together to feast the sorrowful occasion of our royal guests leaving us,” Ned nodded towards Robert at this, “and for me to bid farewell to you all as I go with him. But I find myself in the happy position to announce a more joyful occasion to celebrate as well. But first, I fear I must confess to all of you that I have lied to you these past seventeen years.”

Jaime’s brow rose at that, his eyes sliding towards where Robert and Cersei sat, only to find them both as dumbfounded as he was. He glanced at the Stark children, but only Robb and Jon seemed to understand. They would need to learn to school their nerves a bit better in the future if they would hope to hide them from someone as experienced as Jaime.

“Most of you know Jon Snow as my bastard son,” Ned went on, gesturing towards the boy sitting next to his son. “I apologize for allowing you to believe this falsehood, but it was not done in malice, but to protect my younger brother from shame.”

At this announcement, most eyes turned to Benjen Stark, who was sitting impassively next to little Rickon, but the First Ranger of the Night’s Watch just nodded solemnly.

“Jon Snow is in truth Jon Stark,” Lord Stark declared firmly. “Born of my brother and his bonded before her unfortunate death. My brother abandoned him for the Wall in heartbreak before he had an opportunity to acknowledge him.”

The pronouncement seemed preposterous to Jaime. He knew Ned Stark was a ridiculously honorable man, and he was the last person in the world Jaime would accuse of lying, but why make such a claim _now_? 

“I tell you this truth now,” Ned went on, unknowingly answering Jaime’s silent question. “Because of the happy news I have. My son Robb has found his bonded in my nephew Jon.”

The declaration was met with cheers and shouts of approval. Jaime clapped politely, but couldn’t help but observe than the other Stark children were stunned at the news. And the Greyjoy boy looked incensed. Why hadn’t Lord Stark warned them of the news?

“Do you believe it?” Tyrion asked him in a low voice that was barely audible over the celebratory noise. He could see his brother’s brain working furiously behind his mismatched eyes.

Jaime shrugged. “Lord Stark isn’t prone to lying,” he replied carefully, aware that they were not alone. “Besides, it is shameful to not acknowledge a true-born son, and the now Jon Stark gains nothing really from being Benjen Stark’s son, other than a name.”

Tyrion hummed thoughtfully as he raised his goblet to his lips. “Do not underestimate a name,” he remarked knowingly. “My name is the only reason I am alive. But there is something suspicious about this affair.”

He had no argument for that. “He’d get the name anyway,” he pointed out. “He’s Robb Stark’s bonded.”

“Therein lies the puzzle.”

tbc…


	3. Chapter Three

Brienne hissed as she stripped off her tunic and leather trousers and sunk into the hot bath her servants had brought in for her. Ser Goodwin had not gone easier on her that day, leaving her body sore with many a bruise, but it was worth it for the grin that had crossed the master-of-arm’s face as he declared that there was little more that she could learn from him.

Her father had even given her an approving smile from where he was watching. Lord Selwyn Tarth may not have been _happy_ that his daughter had chosen a martial life rather than a marital one, but he had finally given in after she had gone through three betrotheds with no marriage. To be fair, though, the Caron boy had died well before he could actually find fault with Brienne.

_Not of them mattered_ , she told herself firmly as she traced over her soulmark, with its shining gold hilt and gleaming blade. _Only they matter_.

Septa Roelle told her that her mark was wrong. The Seven wrought souls in pairs, and a soulmark was meant to be a reflection of that. There was only the sword in her mark, though. Only one thing.

Only her.

She had believed it ever since her soulmark came in when she was but thirteen. Everyone had told her the same thing, from her father to Maester Vondric to the cooks in the kitchen.

So Brienne decided that if her mark represented _her_ , then she had to become the sword. She would be as straight and true as the blade, and as bold and brave as the lion hilt. A true knight.

She was fifteen before she learned the sword could represent both her _and_ her soulmate.

Lord Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, had come to Tarth on his coming-of-age tour, with Ser Loras Tyrell, his bonded, standing proudly at his side. She had known it was rude to stare at a bonded pairs’ marks, but they were uncovered and had caught her curious eye.

When she had come across Lord Renly alone in her father’s house, she had not been able to hold her tongue.

“My lord,” she had greeted him courteously, feeling awkward in the dress her father made her promise to wear while their liege lord was visiting.

“My lady,” he had answered with a welcoming smile she returned despite herself. Lord Renly had an easy mannerism about him. He was cocky, no doubt, but he was also kind and free with his affection. If she hadn’t seen the utter devotion on his face whenever he looked upon his bonded, she was sure she might have fallen for him.

Brienne had hesitated, knowing her question was impolite and not wanting to offend her lord, who had not so much as flinched at her uncomely appearance. “I was wondering about your soulmark,” she had blurted out finally.

To her utter shock, Renly had _laughed_. “I understand, my lady,” he had said good-naturedly, holding out his left wrist in obvious invitation. A gallant brown stallion stood proudly on his skin, head held high as his feet lifted in a trot. “I was told I was alone, because there’s only one horse, but I don’t think the septons and septas understand the marks as well as they think.”

She stared at the mark in amazement, knowing that Ser Loras was marked with its twin. She may have questioned before meeting either of them why it was a stallion and not a sigil for either of their houses, but it was readily apparent that neither symbol fit either of them very well. 

Ser Loras was not so delicate as a rose, and Lord Renly was nowhere near as elusive as a stag.

“I knew they were wrong when I met Loras,” Renly had gone on, a faraway look in his eyes as he smiled. He seemed to come back to himself and had turned his smile on her. “I like to think it makes our bond special,” he had confided. “Our souls are so tied together that we only need one symbol to represent our bond.”

Lord Renly’s words had stuck with her through the years, giving her hope.

Because someone was out there for her. Someone who would accept her for who she was.

Someone who would _love_ her. Brienne Tarth. Despite her unbecoming face, despite her intimidating height, despite her flat chest, despite her unwomanly ways.

The person behind her shining sword would love _her_.

It was enough to withstand any ridicule she otherwise received.

 

#

 

His father had excused himself early from the feast, claiming there were arrangements for their journey he still had to see to. Though it wasn’t exactly a lie, it was a bit misleading considering what Jon knew he was going to do.

And he felt a bit like a coward for not being there for it.

Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, because Robb leaned in closer and whispered, “She needs time to get used to the idea before seeing us together.”

“I don’t like being the reason you can’t go to your mother and share the news of your bonding,” he replied softly, bringing his wine goblet to his lips just for something to do.

“You aren’t the reason, _she_ is,” Robb muttered darkly.

He frowned. That was the second time today he had spoken of his mother in such a harsh tone. And even if he had never done anything to earn Lady Stark’s ire, he still felt guilty for driving a wedge between Robb and his mother.

“Perhaps she won’t hate me so much when she learns I’m not your father’s son,” he said optimistically. After all, her hatred most stemmed from the belief that his father had been unfaithful to her, right? Surely learning he hadn’t been would alleviate that.

Robb smiled at him. “I’m sure she will.”

“What are you two whispering about?” Arya butted in, leaning across the table to look at them with narrowed eyes. “And why didn’t you tell us sooner that you were soulmates?”

The rest of their siblings—well, _Robb’s_ siblings, really, he reminded himself—were watching them curiously for the answer, even little Rickon looking up from where he was mashing his peas to focus on them. Theon, he noticed, looked disgruntled at the reminder that they were bonded.

“Father told us to wait until he announced it,” Robb answered, offering no explanation as to _why_ they had to wait. Invoking their father’s will was smart. It meant that none of them questioned their reasons any further.

“So you’re _really_ not our brother?” Arya asked, looking sad at the thought.

“He’s Robb’s bonded,” Sansa interjected haughtily, giving Arya a look that said she thought her sister was completely stupid. “Of _course_ he’s our brother.”

Jon was touched at that. He should’ve expected the sentiment, really. Sansa had always been enchanted by the idea of soulmates, ever since she was a little girl. It made sense that she would be the first to embrace the idea of he and Robb being bonded and proclaim Jon her brother.

Still, the statement coming from the sister who had seemed to love him least was heartening. Maybe Lady Stark would be just as quick to accept him.

“Good,” Arya declared with a serious nod. “I didn’t want to lose my favorite brother.”

Robb protested playfully while Jon smirked smugly at him. Sansa rolled her eyes as Rickon went back to playing with his food, not caring one bit if Arya liked Jon over him.

“You never did have much taste,” Theon grumbled nastily from across from Arya.

“That’s a compliment coming from you,” Robb snapped angrily.

Jon turned to calm him down, but before he could say anything, he caught sight of the other side of the table. Specifically, the looks _he_ was garnering from their guests.

The Imp and Kingslayer were giving him considering looks, which didn’t really surprise him much. The brief interactions he had had with both of them during their visit had told him that the Lannister brothers both liked to be aware of the players around them. A relatively unimportant bastard suddenly becoming a legitimate son of House Stark and bonded to its heir was definitely something that would attract their attention.

And though their attention was troubling, it didn’t worry him the way the king and the queen did.

Queen Cersei’s eyes somehow managed to encapsulate both suspicion and disdain as she gazed at him openly. She smiled at him as she noticed him looking back at her, and he quickly looked away, not wanting to give her any reason to be more suspicious of him. With what he knew of the Lannisters, while they may not have hated Targaryens the way the king did, they certainly wouldn’t let a threat to their power live, as was evident from the number of Targaryens they had already slaughtered.

Still, it was the _king_ that bothered him the most. Robert Baratheon was looking at him with an interest that made Jon want to cringe into Robb’s side. It was a ridiculous instinct. He wasn’t some sort of craven who needed his bonded to protect him from a threat. Besides, King Robert was only a threat to him if he found out Jon was a Targaryen and a threat to his throne.

But Robert wasn’t look at him as if he were a threat—he was looking at him like he was something to be _owned_.

Jon quickly looked down, not wanting to catch any more of the man’s attention. The stare was unnerving, but he took comfort in the fact that at least it wasn’t lust in the king’s eyes. He knew what that looked like in a man’s eye. He had seen it in men’s eyes before, though relations between men were frowned upon outside of soulbonds.

This was a look he hadn’t seen before. Like greed but greater. Something that caused dread to pool in his stomach.

“What’s wrong?” Robb asked softly, breaking through his thoughts.

Jon just shook his head, not wanting to admit to his unease here, wherever anyone could hear them. He gave Robb a reassuring smile, knowing his bonded would need more to keep him from worrying. “I’m just tired,” he replied with a pointed glance. “You did wake me fairly early this morning.”

“Was that just this morning?” Robb remarked with an air of wonder. “It feels like a lifetime ago.”

It felt that way to Jon as well. Since Robb had shown him his mark, Jon’s entire world had been flipped upside down. It was worth it to be with Robb, but it had also left him reeling. And he was beginning to think that even if he were known as Benjen’s son instead of Lyanna’s, there were dangers that none of them had anticipated.

“Do you wish to retire?” Robb asked a moment later, pulling him from his thoughts once more.

In truth, Jon wanted nothing more than to flee the hall and the royal eyes on him, but he knew Robb would be expected to stay until the king retired, which could be late into the night. Jon didn’t want to leave him.

“Why don’t you all retire?” Benjen suggested over the din of the hall, looking to where Rickon was nodding into his pudding. “I dare say tomorrow is going to be a busy day for you all. I’ll look after the king. From the looks of it, her grace is retiring early as well.”

Jon looked over and sure enough, Cersei was leaving the hall, leaving both her brothers and husband behind.

“Thank you, Uncle,” Robb accepted for them, not giving Jon time to protest before he was standing. He approached the king and bowed, saying something that Jon couldn’t hear, no doubt making their apologies. King Robert’s booming laugh could be heard over the noise in the hall, and he waved Robb away with drunken graciousness.

Sansa was picking up Rickon and already making her way out of the hall behind Arya when Robb returned, grabbing Jon’s hand and pulling him out after her. Jon was confused, though, when Robb bypassed Jon’s bedchamber and towards the stairs that led to the family wing. He had just enough time to see Sansa carrying Rickon into his room, Lady and Shaggydog trailing behind her, before Robb tugged him towards the other end of the corridor, where his own chambers were located. Grey Wind and Ghost darted past them to immediately curl up together on the end of the pile of furs that served as Grey Wind’s bed now that he had grown too large to fit comfortably at the foot of Robb’s bed.

Robb closed the door behind them and turned to him with a sheepish glint in his eye that most people would miss. Jon wondered if all soulmates could read each other the way he and Robb could, or if it was just the benefit of having grown up together.

“I know we haven’t really talked about it,” Robb began. “But I thought we’d share my chamber instead of yours. It’s bigger, after all, and a bit more private.”

Jon’s eyes widened in realization. Of course he’d be expected to share a bedchamber with Robb. That’s what bonded pairs _did_. Gods, they were supposed to share a _bed_.

“If you’re not comfortable moving in so quickly, we can wait,” Robb was quick to assure him. “Or you can keep your own chamber. It wouldn’t be that out of the ordinary.”

Except it would be, Jon knew. Northerners took soulbonds seriously. It was one thing for married couples to maintain separate chambers, but it was considered perverse for bonded pairs to do the same. Only a twisted soul would want to spend the long hours of the night so far from their other half once they found each other.

And Jon _didn’t_ want to be away from Robb. It was just that it still overwhelmed him how _much_ he wanted to be close to Robb.

Still, if they didn’t move in together immediately, there would be questions, and with the secret they were keeping, it was better that questions weren’t asked.

“You don’t still kick in your sleep, do you?” he asked cheekily, stepping forward and taking both Robb’s hands in his own.

That surprised a laugh out of Robb. “To be fair, I was six and you were hogging the covers,” he teased. “You don’t still do that, do you?”

“Don’t tell me the future Lord of Winterfell would begrudge his bonded his furs on a cold Northern night?” Jon asked innocently.

Robb smirked, and elicited a gasp from him when he pulled him close with a swift tug and wrapped his arms around Jon’s waist. “Trust me,” he murmured, lips tantalizingly close to his own. “I’ll make sure you’re warm.”

Jon shivered, moving to lean in close before chickening out and looking down. He bit his lip. “It may be some time before I’m comfortable enough to give myself to you,” he admitted, flushing in shame. He felt like a failure as a soulmate. He should be ready and willing to give _everything_ to Robb.

“That’s alright,” Robb replied, leaning his forehead against Jon’s. “I don’t think I’ll be ready to give myself to _you_ any time soon, either.”

His head snapped up in shock at that, reeling back to stare in bewilderment at Robb. “What do you mean, give yourself to me?” he asked, feeling both a little scandalized at the thought even as it sent a shot of lust through him. “You’re the future Lord of Winterfell! You can’t do _that_!”

“We are _equals_ in this relationship, Jon,” Robb stated seriously, eyes daring him to argue. “You and I are _one_ , remember? Besides,” he added. “If circumstances had been different, you could have been a Targaryen prince, maybe even a king. I am fairly certain our pedigrees are mostly equal.”

“I’d really rather not think of that,” Jon grumbled, not wanting to think about the threat his true parentage was to himself and everyone he cared about. “And I’m sure no one else would consider us equals.”

“Well, I’m not planning to invite anyone else into our bedchamber, are you?” Robb asked with a smirk. “Now, shall we get ready for bed? I can lend you a nightshirt for tonight, and we’ll have your things moved in tomorrow.”

Jon gulped as he realized getting ready for bed meant _undressing_ , but he nodded and took the garment when Robb handed it to him. His bonded turned his back to him as he began removing his clothing. Robb had stripped off his tunic to expose his bare back before Jon realized he was staring and quickly turned away.

He removed his doublet and tunic before pulling the nightshirt over his head. He stripped his trousers off and kicked them away. He turned back around and met Robb’s eyes over the bed, relieved that he wasn’t the only one who looked a bit nervous.

Deciding one of them had to make the first move, he threw back the furs and quickly slid into bed, shooting Robb a meaningful look. “Come on, Robb,” he said with more bravado than he felt. “We’ve shared a bed before. Blow out the candle and get into bed.”

“When we were Rickon’s age,” Robb reminded but relented a climbed into bed next to Jon, leaning over to blow out the candle. With only the flickering flames in the hearth on the far wall to light the room, the room seemed much more intimate.

There was still about a foot between them as they settled down on their respective sides, but Jon could still feel the heat radiating off Robb’s body. He thought it would make him uncomfortable, but it just helped him relax further into the bed with a sigh.

“So what happened in the hall?” Robb asked, sliding his hand down to wrap around Jon’s. “You seemed worried.”

Jon wanted to deny it, if only so Robb didn’t worry, but he saw no reason to with everyone leaving tomorrow. “The king and queen kept sending me queer looks,” he answered dismissively. “I’ll be glad to see the back of them.”

Robb hummed thoughtfully. “Me too, though I could do without Father and the girls leaving with them.”

“At least we’ll still have each other,” he said, turning his head to smile at him and his breath stuttering his throat as the fire cast Robb’s profile in striking relief. He barely managed to breathe normally again as Robb looked at him with a smile.

“That’s enough.”

 

#

 

Sansa crept towards Bran’s room hesitantly, Lady padding silently behind her. It was probably silly to worry about disturbing her little brother, who had yet to wake up since the accident. She was going to make a last minute plea to her mother. If she could get her to agree that the betrothal was a bad idea, Father would certainly cancel it.

She paused outside her brother’s room, though, as she heard voices, hushed but harsh, filtering through the thick wooden door.

“—don’t care _who_ his father is, he cannot stay here,” her mother hissed.

“He is my nephew and your son’s bonded,” her father snapped. “He will _always_ have a place here at Winterfell.”

It took Sansa a moment to realize they were talking about Jon. She frowned. Why would her mother try to send Robb’s soulmate away? Especially now when she knew he wasn’t Father’s bastard?

“His _male_ bonded,” Catelyn replied viciously. “Robb is the _heir_ to Winterfell. It is well within our rights to have Jon sent to the Wall and forget he ever existed.”

Sansa barely suppressed her gasp of horror at that. Was her mother really so cruel as to rip Robb and Jon apart?

“That is not the Northern way,” Ned said in a stony tone.

“No respectable woman will want to share her station with her lord’s bonded,” her mother argued. “Especially with the knowledge her lord will always hold _him_ in higher regard.”

“You made that quite clear when _we_ were wed, my lady,” her father remarked cooly. 

“And you agreed to send your frog-eater away,” she pointed out. “This is no different.”

“This is entirely different,” Ned declared with finality. “There are respectable ladies with female soulmates who will acquiesce to the match _if_ Robb choses to take a wife in order to produce an heir. I will _not_ separate my firstborn from his bonded because of the selfish whims of the same woman who separated me from my own.”

Sansa quickly scrambled away from the door and retreated to her own room before Lady, seconds before she heard the door to Bran’s room open and her father’s heavy footsteps in the corridor.

A tear fell from her eye as she realized her mother wouldn’t help her. Catelyn didn’t care about soulmates. She _couldn’t_ if she was so willing to send Jon away from Robb.

Had she really sent her father’s soulmate away? She hadn’t even given a thought to the idea that Father might have a soulmate somewhere. And she most certainly had not considered the possibility of him having a _male_ soulmate.

Who was he? Where was he? Why did her father send him away at her mother’s request? Hadn’t he loved him?

She fell into her bed without undressing as she let her tears flow freely, feeling utterly helpless as she realized there would be no reprieve from her betrothal.

She had thought that the soulmarks made things _simpler_. All she had to do to find her true love was wait until her mark came in and then find her soulmate. They would bond and live happily ever after, just like in all the songs.

It had all sounded so romantic, and seeing Robb and Jon tonight, she was sure that it _was_.

Her brothers had been the first bonded pair she had really seen up close, and though she could tell they hadn’t quite figured out their relationship yet. Still, the love and happiness in their eyes had been obvious whenever they looked at each other.

She wanted that, and had been so happy that her brothers had found that in each other.

Why would anyone willingly tear such a thing apart?

tbc…


	4. Chapter Four

She walked slowly towards her grandmother’s garden. The sun still hung low in the sky, but she knew her grandmother would already be awake and breaking her fast. Though Olenna usually joined the entire family in the solar later when they ate, she was always up hours before them all.

It took her a while to reach the garden. She knew anyone watching her would think she had lost her mind with the way she kept slowing and stopping. She couldn’t stop her eyes from wandering to the new mark on the inside of her wrist, and whenever she did, her feet stopped working as she stared.

Her grandmother raised an eyebrow as she entered the pavilion. “You’re up awfully early, my dear.” 

Margaery smiled and took the seat next to her. The Queen of Thorns had taken a keen interest in her ever since she was a small child, and Margaery had always come to her first with every achievement and worry. She loved her parents, of course, and they doted on her as their only daughter, but she knew they had ambitions for her. And while she did not object to those ambitions, she was never quite sure how they would react if she did.

Olenna, though, had always thought that the idea of putting ambitions over everything else was nonsense.

“What is the point of having power if you can’t use it to make yourself happy,” she had once said dismissively. “Isn’t that the whole point?”

Which is why Margaery felt showing her first was the best course of action.

Olenna hummed thoughtfully as she inspected her granddaughter’s wrist. “Well, that’s certainly clearer than most,” she remarked, releasing Margaery’s hand.

That was true, she knew, gazing once more at the grey direwolf inside the golden rose. “My soulmate is a Stark.”

“Or someone closely associated with them, but yes. That seems to be the most logical conclusion,” her grandmother said, turning back to her breakfast and taking a bite of eggs.

Margaery sighed as she stared at the yellow eyes of the wolf on her skin. House Stark held the North, which was about as far as you could get from the Reach and still be in Westeros. Her mother’s sister, she knew, had married a Northern lord, but she had hated it there with a passion. Margaery wasn’t sure she’d like it there any better.

“Well don’t look so glum, dear,” Olenna told her, breaking through her thoughts. “Your soulmate is from a reputable family which shares a very good friendship with the king. Your father is sure to approve of the match the same way he approved of Loras’.”

“Are all soulbonds like Loras’?” she asked curiously. He and Renly were completely devoted to each other. She had known people in bonded relationships before, of course, but she had never really seen them interact within the relationship before Renly had visited Highgarden and he had Loras found each other.

“They differ from couple to couple, the same with all relationships,” her grandmother replied, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “Your brother is a flashy knight bonded to a flashy lord. Their bond was sure to be a bit flashy as well.”

“But they all love each other?” Margaery pressed, unable to fathom loving someone she had never met as much as Loras claimed to love Renly.

“My dear, your soulmate is a part of you. You can’t change that anymore than you can change whether Loras is your brother or Mace your father,” she replied with a shake of her head. “Why all these stupid lords and ladies go about thinking they can just disregard their bonds and live as if they haven’t cut off one of their very limbs is beyond me.”

Margaery frowned thoughtfully, looking down at her wrist and brushing a thumb over the mark. “Winterfell is so far away,” she said mournfully. “How will we meet?”

The Starks rarely left the North, she knew, despite Lord Stark’s close friendship with King Robert.

“If that mark shows up on a Stark child, the Starks will seek you out. Northerns place a great deal of faith in their soulmarks. They have things right, there,” Olenna told her, pointing her fork at Margaery meaningfully. “You’re lucky. Your soulmate will likely never willing deny you. That’s more than most people can say.”

“That could be years from now,” she pointed out, trying to keep the petulance out of her tone. Her grandmother could never stand pouting. “Their mark hasn’t come in yet or we’d _know_.”

Olenna gave her an approving smile. “Very smart, girl, to want to know the measure of your soulmate before they know of your bond.”

Margaery kept her face impassive, accepting the praise even though that was the furthest thought from her mind. Truthfully, she just wanted to _meet_ them, with no other ulterior purpose.

“You may be in luck, child,” her grandmother continued, smiling at her as she took a sip of tea. “Rumor has it that Eddard Stark is going to be the new Hand of the King. I’m sure at least some of his children will travel with him. Perhaps your opportunity will come soon.”

She smiled at that. She knew it was no guarantee, but it was more than she had had before.

 

#

 

Jaime rolled his eyes as the king and his new Hand thundered away from camp without so much as a warning to anyone. Ser Meryn and Ser Boros looked uncertainly at their own horses, debating riding after them, but Jaime certainly wasn’t going to stick his neck out to protect a king that didn’t want protecting.

Cersei stepping out of her tent and shooting his fellow Kingsguard a look, though, was enough to keep them in place. She tilted her head at Jaime, and he joined her on a stroll through camp. He couldn’t help but notice that their stroll took them to the Stark side of camp. He smirked a bit at that. Cersei never was very subtle.

“So what had our gallant king galloping off with his Hand this morning?” he asked after a few moments of eavesdropping on Lord Stark’s household.

“We got a message from Varys saying that the Targaryen girl has married some Dothraki barbarian across the sea,” Cersei replied, mouth twisting into a sneer. “You know how Robert hates the reminder that there are Targaryens still alive and well.”

Jaime snorted. “Considering what I know about the Dothraki, I’m not sure I would say the girl was alive and _well_.”

“She’s not liable to be alive very long either,” she remarked with satisfaction. “Not if Robert has his way. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. The Targaryens are one thing Robert and I actually agree on.”

He said nothing to that. He usually left the political games to his sister and their father. They bored him. Still, the idea of assassinating Danaerys Targaryen did not sit well with him. Assassination was a tool of cowards.

Besides, the Targaryen girl was practically a child.

He shook the thought away. It didn’t matter. The Targaryens were threats to his family. Family was everything. Family was all that mattered.

Family was all that he had.

“You never told me what you make of Ned Stark’s bastard not being Ned Stark’s bastard,” Cersei said, interrupting his thoughts. They had circled back to their side of camp, away from any Stark ears.

He shrugged off the implicit question. “What’s there to make of?” he said dismissively. He should’ve known that Cersei would be suspicious. She may hate to admit it, but her and Tyrion were alike in more ways than one. 

She raised a perfect brow at him. “You don’t find it a little odd that a man who puts so much stock in honor, would sacrifice his own honor and condemn his true-born nephew to life as a bastard just to hide the fact that his brother abandoned his son for the Wall?”

Jaime frowned. It did sound odd, especially considering that the boy wasn’t conceived dishonorably and that Benjen left him in the caring hands of his brother. Still… “What does it matter? The boy is bonded to Ned’s son and will likely be safely tucked away in Winterfell for many years to come. Who cares who his parents are?”

“People don’t lie for no reason,” Cersei shot back at him, eyes narrowing as she looked across the camp to where the Stark girls were breaking their fast, their direwolves at their sides. “Robert means for Joffrey to marry that little wretch. If I can’t trust her father, I can’t trust her.”

He was fairly certain that Cersei would never trust anyone with any of her children, but he had the grace to bite back that remark.

“I highly doubt Sansa Stark knows anything about her brother-turned-cousin’s parentage or why her father would lie about it,” he said instead.

She turned her lovely green eyes on him and glared. “That’s not the point. Ned Stark has lied twice now to the king about this boy, and I want to know why.”

“You don’t know the explanation he gave the other night was a lie,” Jaime pointed out. “It wouldn’t be so out of character for the honorable Lord Stark to make his nephew a bastard just to save his brother’s honor. After all, it’s not so dishonorable to have a bastard.”

As Cersei well knew, considering she herself had born three to him, though neither of them would ever acknowledge it. Besides, there was hardly a lord out there who was bastardless for lack of trying.

She pursed her lips. “I still don’t like it. What do you know of the boy’s birth?”

“Not more than you, I’d expect,” he replied. “He brought the babe home with him after the Rebellion. He never said where he came from, other than he was his son. Nobody ever really cared to question it, I’d imagine. Who cares where a bastard comes from?”

“I care,” Cersei declared firmly. “Especially if he isn’t really a bastard.”

Jaime sighed, knowing she wasn’t ever going to let this go. She had decided that Ned Stark was lying about Jon Stark’s parents, and a hundred witnesses wouldn’t change her mind. Cersei was amazingly stubborn like that. It was one of the things he loved about her, but it could also drive him absolutely crazy sometimes.

 

#

 

“Do you think we’ll stop at Greywater March?” Arya asked her. Her little sister hadn’t been riding near her, preferring instead to ride ahead and explore. She had gone too far yesterday, though, and Father had scolded her and made her ride with the caravan. Sansa still didn’t know why she was riding next to her, though, instead of the butcher’s boy that she had taken up with.

Not that she was complaining. Since Jeyne, never a strong equestrian, was riding with Septa Mordane on the supply wagon, it was nice to have someone to talk to. Even if that someone was Arya, who insisted on wearing breeches instead of dresses and sneered at the idea of riding side-saddle.

“Greywater March is miles from the kingsroad,” she told her.

“Yeah, but it _moves_ ,” she argued.

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Castles don’t move. You shouldn’t believe everything you’re told.”

Arya made a face at her. “Stop talking to me like I’m a child and you’re not. You’re not that much older than me. And it _does_ move. Father told me so,” she retorted smugly. “Are you saying _Father_ lied?”

She flushed at that, but had to admit that she was wrong. “How do people find it if it moves?” she asked in lieu of an apology.

“People _don’t_ find it,” Arya answered excitedly. “Father says that’s why no enemy has ever been able to defeat the crannogmen.”

“Then how would _we_ find it if we were going to stop there?” Sansa asked in exasperation. 

“Father’s been,” came the certain answer. “He’d be able to find it for sure.”

“Well, I don’t think we’re going,” she replied. Sansa was sure the queen especially would never deign to honor the crannogmen with her presence. Despite their pledge of loyalty to House Stark, she knew that even some Northerners looked down on the crannogmen. She was sure the Southerners would respect them even less.

“That’s too bad,” Arya remarked sadly. “I wanted to see how the castle moved.”

“The castle wouldn’t be moving if we were there though,” Sansa pointed out sensibly.

“It could be,” she argued. “It might—”

“My lady,” Joffrey called, riding up and interrupting Arya, who shot the prince a glare. Nymeria growled slightly at her side. The golden prince just ignored them both, though. “My royal mother bid me to invite you to ride in our wheelhouse with us tomorrow.” He shot a disdainful look at Arya in her breeches of rough wool. “Your sister is, of course, welcome to join us as well.”

Sansa tried very hard to keep her displeasure off of her face. While she was sure the wheelhouse was equipped with many cushions and pillows that were no doubt more comfortable than her saddle, it also came with the inconvenience of being near Joffrey, who had thus far spent much of the journey shut in with his mother and siblings.

The prince had been annoyingly persistent in his overtures towards her, and was quick to anger if she rebuffed him too obviously. Sansa didn’t understand how he could lavish such attentions on her knowing she was not his soulmate.

“I prefer to ride, my prince,” she lied. “Besides, I promised my sister we would ride ahead a bit to see more of Moat Caitlin. We’ve never seen the ruins before, and it could be years before we have another opportunity.”

She could see Arya giving her a knowing look, but Joffrey seemed to buy it.

“I would accompany you ladies, but my mother prefers me to stay close. She is leery of the swamplands of the Neck,” he said a bit pompously. Sansa couldn’t help but wonder if that was an excuse for his own leeriness for the swamps.

Not that she could blame him. The idea of the mucky swamplands made her nose wrinkle in distaste as well.

“Send her Grace our apologies,” she told him politely. “Perhaps another day.”

Joffrey smiled at her, but she noticed his eyes remained cold. “I’m sure there will be plenty opportunity on the journey.”

He rode ahead after that, thankfully, and Arya sent her a triumphant smirk. “Now you _have_ to ride ahead to Moat Caitlin with me,” she told her. “You can’t let Joffrey realize you were lying.”

Sansa scowled. “We’ll have to ask Father,” she replied airily, hoping their father would forbid them from the expedition.

From Arya’s grin, though, she was sure her sister believed he would say yes. She sighed, mentally going through all of the things she had packed to see if she had anything to wear that she didn’t mind getting mucked up.

Still, if the choice was between a swamp and Joffrey, she’d choose the swamp any day.

 

#

 

Jon burrowed into the warmth next to him, trying to escape the bright sun peaking through the window. He made a noise of protest as the pillow beneath his head moved before freezing as he heard and felt the chuckle his actions elicited.

He blushed bright red as he realized that during the night, he had somehow ended up wrapped around Robb. It wouldn’t have been so bad if his morning erection wasn’t currently pressed against his bonded’s hip. He moved to roll away, more than embarrassed at the position they were in, but Robb’s arms around him kept him close.

“No, I like you in my arms,” he told him, leaning forward and brushing a kiss against Jon’s mouth, lips sleep-warm and soft against his own. 

Jon shivered at the touch and the words. It had been nine days since Robb had gotten his mark, but they hadn’t gone much further than chaste kisses. And until this morning, they had been very careful to maintain their distance while in bed.

In a moment of daring, Jon pressed their mouths together more firmly, darting his tongue out to hesitantly run it over the seam of Robb’s mouth. His bonded groaned at the touched, his mouth opening under the pressure of Jon’s tongue while his own tongue snaked out to meet it.

Jon shuddered at the feeling, pressing closer to Robb as the other man’s arms tightened around him. The kiss seemed to go on forever, both of them relishing in the sweet slide of their lips and tongue, but soon the need to breathe drove them apart.

“That was…” Robb trailed off breathlessly, hand absently caressing Jon’s side.

“Yeah,” Jon panted, head dropping onto the pillow, feeling a little overwhelmed. Gods, it was just a _kiss_.

Robb’s eyes darkened a bit before he brought their mouths together once more, taking control of the kiss and covering Jon’s body with his own. Jon gasped into the kiss, hands clutching Robb’s nightshirt as his bonded filled all of his sense. He arched his body up, breaking the kiss with a cry of pleasure as his arousal rubbed against Robb’s thigh.

Robb pulled away, looking down at him with surprise and awe in his eyes. Jon breathed heavily under his gaze, wondering if they were really going to do this. If they were really going to take this monumental step in their relationship.

Jon had thought that when the moment came, he would be nervous. Now, however, he realized he just _wanted_.

Robb groaned and, to his dismay, rolled off of Jon. “We can’t now,” he said, giving him a chagrined look. “It’s getting late. Maester Luwin is expecting me soon to go over some of the needs of the household.”

He frowned. He hadn’t realized he had slept that late. He was usually up much earlier. “Shouldn’t your mother being doing that?” he asked before wincing. He hadn’t meant the question to sound as accusatory as it did.

His bonded just gave him a rueful smile. “Yes, she should,” he replied. “But she refuses to leave Bran’s bedside to see to Winterfell. I should really speak to her about it. Rickon has been crying for her and the girls all week. She can’t neglect everything for Bran.”

Jon could tell he wasn’t looking forward to speaking to his mother. Lady Stark had made her disapproval of his bond with Jon quite clear the last time Robb had spoken to her. She had harshly told him that he should send Jon to the Wall and marry a nice girl from a respectable family. Robb had been livid and had refused to speak to him ever since, staying stonily silent every time he ventured into Bran’s room to see his brother.

For his part, Jon was reluctant to even set foot in the room to visit Bran. Lady Stark was bitter enough at his presence in Winterfell. He saw no point in rubbing salt in the wound.

He couldn’t even blame her for her hatred of him. She wanted the best for her son. While he might resent her for not believing he was good enough, he could never blame her for wanting the best for Robb. Not when Robb _deserved_ the best.

Of course, it helped knowing that he had a place at Winterfell whether she wished it or not. Robb had made it quite clear to her that he would follow Jon if she were to send him away. While Jon knew that Robb would never abandon his duties to Winterfell, Lady Stark wasn’t daring enough to call his bluff.

“Would you like me to be there with you?” he asked, not really sure why. He was sure his being there wouldn’t make the conversation any easier.

Robb shot him a grateful look, though, which made him glad he had made the offer. “I would like that very much,” he admitted, relief evident in his eyes. Reprimanding his mother for not doing her duties was a reversal of positions that he was obviously uncomfortable with.

They got dressed quickly and made towards the solar. Before they could reach it, though, they heard the distinct voices of Catelyn and Maester Luwin. Robb sighed, but changed their course, Jon following silently after him in support.

Lady Stark’s crazed eyes found him as soon as he entered the room, and Robb hadn’t even opened his mouth before she was shouting once more. “Get that abomination out of my sight!” she shrieked. “I will not have him near my son!”

“That’s enough, Mother,” Robb snapped angrily, stepping in front of Jon protectively. Jon wondered if it had been a bad idea to come with Robb. His presence was only escalating the situation. “Maester Luwin, you may leave us,” he ground out, and the older man quickly bowed out reluctantly. Jon half-wished he could follow him, but couldn’t imagine leaving Robb without support. “Mother, you need to go to your chambers and get some sleep.”

“How _dare_ you order me about,” she hissed at Robb. “Your father left Winterfell in _my_ charge. I will not be disrespected by my own son!”

“Then _be_ in charge of Winterfell,” Robb growled. The sounds of direwolf howled filled the air outside, but they paid them no mind. Summer had been howling off and on since Bran’s fall, and his brothers often joined him. “You are needed by more than just Bran.”

“I cannot leave him!” she cried, mood shifting from furious to grief-filled in a moment. She was half-crazed with grief and sleep-deprivation, Jon realized. She probably had been since Bran’s fall.

A tiny bloom of hope sprang up inside him. Perhaps she wasn’t as against their bond as she claimed. Maybe with rest, she would see their happiness more clearly.

“Will someone shut those gods-forsaken wolves up!” Catelyn yelled, falling to the floor and covering her ears. 

Jon quickly crossed the room to close the window as Robb rushed to his mother. When he got to the window, though, he realized the wolves had been howling for a different reason.

“Fire!” he cried, whirling around and heading towards the door. “Stay with your mother and Bran!” he shouted behind him to Robb, knowing his bonded’s family needed him more than the people below. He would take care of the fire.

Only, when he got there, there was nothing to really take care of. Ser Rodrik was supervising, with the fire nearly completely out by the time Jon arrived.

“No one was hurt, my lord,” the master-of-arms assured him. Jon still wasn’t used to being addressed so, but barely managed to keep from looking over his shoulder for his father or Robb. “A large portion of the books were destroyed, but the older and more irreplaceable tomes are safe, I’m told.”

Jon nodded. “Good. How did it start?”

Ser Rodrik shook his head. “No one seems to know.”

A loud scream was heard from within Winterfell, and Jon’s blood ran cold as he realized that, with the fire, there were probably few people that could have made it. He ran back the way he came, shoving past anyone who didn’t move out of his way fast enough. By the time he reached Bran’s room, though, he was too late.

Lady Stark was crying with Robb’s head in her lap, mere feet away from a bloodied man whose throat had be ripped out. Jon staggered forward to drop by Robb’s side, dizzy with relief as he realized his wound was to his shoulder and not life-threatening. Still, there was a lot of blood surrounding him, and men could die from blood-loss no matter where the wound was.

 

“I’m alright, Jon,” Robb said weakly, moving to sit but Catelyn’s hand held him in place.

“You are _not_ alright,” she said, voice thick with tears. “Oh, my son, my child, I can’t lose you too.”

“Mother, I am fine,” he stated more firmly, pushing her hand away and sitting up. Jon wrapped an arm around his waist to help him stand, knowing that even Robb’s stubbornness wouldn’t be able to get him up all the way with the amount of blood he had lost.

Ser Rodrik ran in, followed by Maester Luwin, a sight Jon was most grateful to see. “Ser Rodrik, help me get him to our chambers. Maester, he needs healing.”

Maester Luwin was quick to go prepare, and with Ser Rodrik’s help, Jon managed to get Robb back to their chambers and into bed. He was then gently but firmly pushed away so that the maester could do his work.

He paced in the hallway outside their door, exiled from his own chambers as Maester Luwin set about his healing. He kept telling himself that Robb would be fine, that the wound wasn’t that bad, but it did nothing to ease his worry, or his guilt for not being at his side in his need.

Theon joined him after a while. “They say that Robb’s been hurt. Is he alright?”

Jon spared a glance at the Greyjoy heir. Since he and Robb had bonded, Jon avoided the older man even more than he had before. Theon, he knew, was jealous of his place at Robb’s side, and a jealous Theon tended to lash out. He hadn’t wished to sully his newfound happiness by dealing with him.

Still, he knew that Theon loved Robb. Robb had been the only one of the Starks that had truly accepted Theon as one of their own. The younger Starks mostly ignored the Iron Islander, while Lord and Lady Stark treated him with a cool detachment. In a way, Jon had had it better than Theon, though he had never saw it as such when he was seated away from the family at feasts.

Knowing that Theon’s affection for Robb was genuine, Jon figured it was only right to set his mind at ease.

“It is only a shoulder wound,” he replied. “He should be fine.”

Theon narrowed his eyes at him. “Then why do you look so worried?”

“Because I found my bonded lying in a pool of his own blood by his brother’s bed,” Jon replied hotly before deflating. “Sorry. I’m just worried.”

“You should be worried,” Lady Stark’s voice announced as she swept down the corridor towards them with Ser Rodrik at her side. She was pale and swaying on her feet, but she stood firm when she reached them, clutching a dagger tightly in her hand. She thrust it out for them to see. “Someone hired that man to kill Bran. Someone powerful with a lot of money.”

“The blade is Valyrian steel with a dragonbone hilt,” Ser Rodrik explained. 

Jon stared at the blade in shock. “Who would want to kill Bran?” he asked faintly.

“Someone who is afraid of what Bran saw when he fell. Someone in the king’s party,” Catelyn declared, crazed eyes daring them to contradict her. “Lord Stark must be told.”

He nodded. “Maester Luwin can ready a raven as soon as he’s done with Robb.”

“No,” she said firmly. “This cannot be trusted with a raven. He must be told in person by a family member. No one else can be trusted with such a delicate matter.”

From her meaningful stare, Jon knew exactly what she meant. “Do not send me away from Robb. Not now,” he all but begged her. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving his bonded injured at Winterfell, not to mention his father would be furious if he were to go to King’s Landing. “Father does not want me in King’s Landing,” he added.

“Your uncle,” she said, stressing the words, “left Winterfell in my keeping. I am ordering you to go to King’s Landing and tell your lord uncle that an assassin was sent to kill his son, and that his heir was injured as a result. You will also tell him that we suspect a member of the king’s party hired this assassin.”

Jon swallowed but nodded, knowing there was no arguing with her. He couldn’t tell her _why_ Lord Stark didn’t want him anywhere near Winterfell. “I will leave first thing in the morning,” he replied. That way, at least, he would be able to speak with Robb before he left.

“Good,” Catelyn said, giving him a slightly manic smile. “You will go by White Harbor. With luck, the sea will get you there before the king and you can investigate the dagger’s origins in secret before anyone can cover their tracks. You will take Theon with you,” she decided, turning to leave them. She paused before turning back and giving him a pointed look. “And since your investigation will require some degree of secrecy, it would be best to leave your wolf behind.”

He watched her leave with a heavy heart, glancing at Theon, who didn’t look any happier with the decision.

He tried to take comfort in the fact that he wouldn’t be in King’s Landing long, no more than a week if that. They wouldn’t be the king’s party by much, and once he delivered the dagger and the message to Lord Stark, they could be back on their way to Winterfell. It would mean at least two months away from his bonded, but he could cope. It would all be _fine_.

That didn’t stop a chilling sense of foreboding from settling in his stomach though.

tbc…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awesome artwork of Margaery's soulmark by dreamsweep here: http://tinypic.com/r/2qvh381/9


	5. Chapter Five

A cup was placed at his lips but he turned his head away. He would not drink it. Not yet. Not when he was still unsure if the danger had left Winterfell. The man that had tried to attack Bran may not have been alone, and he still did not know the damage the fire had done.

“My lord, you must drink. It is milk of the poppy. It will ease the pain,” Maester Luwin cajoled, not moving the cup away.

Robb could not deny that his shoulder throbbed with pain, the willow bark the maester had given to chew before stitching him up doing little to dispel the agony. He had never in his life had so grievous a wound, and the pain was surprising in its intensity. Still, he was a Stark of Winterfell, and he had to make sure that his family was safe.

“It will dull my senses,” he argued, raising his non-injured left arm and pushing the cup away. “I would see Jon, first, before I drink.”

Luwin’s brow furrowed in concern but he nodded in understanding. “Of course, my lord.”

No sooner had the maester opened his door, than Jon was at his side, taking his left hand in his own. “Robb,” he breathed in relief, gently sitting on the side of their bed and smiling down at him. His dark eyes glanced up at Maester Luwin. “Will he be alright?”

“If he rests and makes no fuss about keeping his bandages clean,” the old man assured, giving Robb a meaningful look. “And if he keeps the arm still so as not to rip out the stitching.”

Robb ignored the two’s conversation, noting the shadow lurking in Jon’s eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asked, tightening his grip on Jon’s hand. His bonded hesitated, and Robb feared the worst. “Is it Bran? My mother?” he asked more urgently, struggling to sit up.

Jon shook his head, bringing his free hand up to press lightly on his chest and keep him abed. “They’re fine,” he replied, giving Robb a smile he knew was fake. He could always tell when Jon’s smiles were fake. “Everyone is fine. No one but you were hurt.”

“Then what troubles you?”

“Your lady mother is sending me to King’s Landing,” Jon answered with a sigh.

“No,” Robb denied immediately, pushing himself up into a seated position despite Jon’s cry of protest and the screaming pain in his shoulder. Fear pounded through his veins at the thought of Jon going to the king’s court. “You can’t go! I forbid it!” he cried vehemently, clutching Jon’s hands desperately.

“Peace, Robb,” Jon soothed, guiding him back down onto the bed. Robb hated that he couldn’t resist lying back, body weary with pain and blood loss. He saw Jon glance at Luwin, still lingering near Robb’s bedside and watching them with careful eyes. “Maester, leave us please,” Jon said, looking far from comfortable at ordering the older man around.

Robb waited a moment after the maester had closed the door before speaking again, this time managing to keep the panicked terror out of his voice. “Jon, you can’t go to King’s Landing.”

“Lady Catelyn bids me go and tell your lord father about the attack on Bran,” he replied, tone far too formal for Robb’s taste.

He narrowed his eyes. This was his mother’s doing.

“ _Our_ father would never want you in King’s Landing,” he argued, reaching up to wrap his hand around the back of Jon’s neck and tug him closer. “Mother is half-crazed with grief and lack of sleep. You cannot _listen_ to her. Besides, I am the heir to Winterfell, and I say you stay.”

Jon gave him a sad smile. “I don’t want to leave you,” he told him, bringing a hand up to cup Robb’s cheek. “But your mother is right.” He put his thumb to Robb’s lips to stop his protest. “The blade the man who tried to kill Bran used was too fine, and it did not come from anyone in Winterfell. It must have traveled north with the king’s party. That information can’t be trusted with a raven.”

He scowled. “That does not mean _you_ have to go.” If someone in the king’s party had sent an assassin after Bran, that was only more of a reason for Jon _not_ to go.

Jon looked down, not meeting his eyes. “Your mother is right. Only family can be trusted with this type of message. Who else is there but me?”

“Those are my mother’s words,” Robb growled, fisting his hand in Jon’s curls and making him look at him. He knew Jon was just agreeing with Catelyn’s reasons so as not to sow further discourse between Robb and his mother. “Someone else could go.”

“They began as your mother’s words, but I agree with her,” he insisted, meeting Robb’s eyes, the stubborn set of his jaw telling his bonded that he would not admit otherwise. “Think for a minute, Robb, who in the king’s party might have a dagger of Valyrian steel and dragonbone?”

It didn’t take him long to come to the same conclusion Jon must have reached. Because, though there were many sworn swords and hedge knights that had attached themselves to King Robert’s caravan, there were few from families wealthy enough to not flinch at casting off such a valuable blade.

And those few all bore either the name Baratheon or Lannister.

“If whoever it is didn’t hesitate to send an assassin to kill a ten-year-old, what do you think they’ll do to a true-born Targaryen son?” he asked, voice tight with fear as his fingers tightened reflexively around Jon’s curls. Nothing Bran could have seen or heard could possibly threaten the Baratheons' or Lannisters’ power as much as Jon’s very existence.

“No one will find out,” Jon said, leaning forward and pressing his forehead against Robb’s.

He hated how certain Jon sounded when he knew for a fact that they _could_. “They might,” he argued softly, eyes boring into the dark eyes mere inches from his own. He couldn’t stop the tears from pooling in his eyes as he imagined never seeing them again. “The maesters keep records of all the soulmarks of the noble houses. The record is kept at the Citadel, yes, but a copy is also kept by the Grand Maester,” he reminded him, swallowing thickly. “If anyone were to match Rhaegar and Lyanna’s marks…”

“Then they could only guess that they bonded,” Jon assured him, brushing a thumb over his cheek and giving him another small smile. A _fake_ smile, Robb knew. “They wouldn’t know that I was their son.”

“It’s still suspicious,” he grumbled, not mollified at all by Jon’s placations, particularly when he could tell Jon didn’t believe them himself.

Jon’s smile became a bit more genuine at Robb’s petulant tone, and he closed the distance between their mouths to brush a kiss over Robb’s lips.

“I won’t be at court long enough for anyone to care to be suspicious,” he murmured as he pulled back. “I’ll be back before you know it. You’ll barely miss me.”

“You’re wrong there,” he said seriously. “I’ll miss you every minute you aren’t at my side.”

“Then I shall endeavor to ensure those minutes will be short,” Jon promised, kissing him once more. He pulled away reluctantly and moved to stand. “I’ll get you the milk of the poppy Maester Luwin left. You need it for your pain.”

“No,” he said, grabbing Jon’s hand. His shoulder throbbed as if in protest of his words. “I want to be aware of every minute I have left with you.”

“I’m not riding off to my death,” Jon told him in fond exasperation. “There will be many more minutes in our future.”

“Just lie down with me, Jon,” Robb pleaded, giving his hand another tug. “Please.”

Jon sighed but relented, lying down next to him gingerly. “Happy?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow at him.

He smirked. “Ecstatic.”

His bonded rolled his eyes at him, but he pillowed his head next to Robb’s and wrapped a gentle arm around his waist anyway. Robb shifted closer to him, wincing as the movement caused the pain in his shoulder to flare.

“When do you leave?” he asked, ignoring Jon’s displeased look at his pained wince.

“At dawn,” he answered sadly.

Robb’s heart clenched at that. He hadn’t known it would be so soon, but he should have guessed. “Promise me that you will come back,” he said, knowing it was unfair of him to ask. If something _kept_ him from coming back, a promise to Robb would only make Jon feel worse.

“Of course I’m coming back,” Jon replied.

“ _Promise_ me,” Robb insisted, turning his head to pin Jon with his stare. Jon was a man of his word. If he promised he would come back, Robb would believe him.

“I promise,” he told him seriously. “I promise I will come back to you.”

“Good,” he nodded, bringing his left hand up a bit awkwardly to cup Jon’s face. “I love you,” he whispered, saying the words for the first time since they discovered their bond. Jon’s breath hitched in his throat, but Robb continued. “I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t,” Jon swore, voice husky with emotion. “I love you, and I promise I will be back.”

 

#

 

Jaime kept his face deliberately impassive as he watched Cersei greet the honor guard sent by the Small Council. As if this thrice-damned trip hadn’t been bad enough. They had gotten to the last leg of their journey, and _of course_ , the damn council would send Renly Baratheon and Barristan Selmy to make the last miles just that much more miserable for Jaime.

Selmy joined him and Meryn Trant after Cersei had moved on to greet her brother-in-law. “Ser Jaime,” he greeted cordially, though the old man could not hide the contempt he felt for the “Kingslayer” that was clear as day in his eyes. “Ser Meryn,” he continued, nodding at the other knight.

Jaime kept his eyes on Cersei has she greeted Renly with barely concealed disdain. The young Lord of Storm’s End didn’t appear to notice, as charmingly jovial as ever. Though he was the Baratheon Jaime could tolerate the most, the young man still disgusted him.

And it wasn’t, as some would suspect, because of the very public relationship he had with his male soulmate. True, Jaime personally could never imagine have sex with another man, but he couldn’t imagine having sex with a woman that wasn’t Cersei either. It was a ridiculous notion, though, that bonded couples of the same sex should never acknowledge their relationships. It wasn’t as if everyone didn’t _know_ that the bonded couples had sex. Pretending otherwise seemed idiotic to him.

No, Jaime could not stand Renly Baratheon because of how spoiled and pampered the man, well, boy really, was. In his green and gold armor, Renly looked the part of a knight well enough, but Jaime knew that the armor had never seen battle. To his recollection, the younger Baratheon had never even ridden in a tourney. And though he wasn’t sure, he would wager that the boy’s hands were soft and without callous. 

His bonded, that ridiculous Knight of Flowers as they called him, was not much better. The spoiled youngest son of Lord Tyrell had certainly never wanted for anything in his life, as evident by the fact that Mace Tyrell had never _once_ objected to this open affection towards Renly. Of course, that might be because Renly was the king’s brother more than anything else. Still, despite the boy’s care to be seen as the perfect knight, Jaime saw Ser Loras as the upstart and naive youth that he was.

Which had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the boy had managed to best him in Joffrey’s name-day tourney. _That_ had been a fluke brought about by luck and nothing more.

“Have you encountered any problems on the road?” Selmy inquired, directing his question to Jaime. Though the old knight might condemn him for being a kingslayer, he trusted him with his duties more than Meryn. Jaime might have slit the last king’s throat, but at least he was competent.

“Not unless you count getting bogged down in the gods-forsaken Neck,” he replied, smirking at his own word play. He was sure Tyrion would have been proud.

Barristan hummed in acknowledgment. “With the wheelhouse, that was to be expected,” he commented. Jaime rolled his eyes. What a wonderful insight, he thought sarcastically. “When is the king expected back from his hunt?”

Jaime scoffed. “Who knows? The king does what he wants.” _And doesn’t give a shit about who it inconveniences_.

If he hadn’t been watching Cersei so closely, he would have missed the slight narrowing of her eyes as she spied something over Selmy’s shoulder. Jaime turned his head and nearly shook his head in exasperation. 

He should have known his sweet sister had seen Sansa Stark by the suspicious contempt that had entered her lovely eyes. He was sure her mind was concocting all sorts of conspiracies the girl could be plotting over breakfast with her septa and wolf.

The girl wasn’t doing herself any favors in the queen’s eyes by avoiding the royal family as much as possible. The more invitations Cersei gave the girl to ride in her wheelhouse, the more ludicrous her excuses became. And because she didn’t want to be seen as _lying_ to the queen, Sansa had taken great care to be seen following through with all of her excuses.

Which really only hurt her in the end. A blind man could see that she didn’t enjoy riding ahead with her sister to explore the land around them.

“You can be fairly intimidating,” Jaime had told her after her last invitation was oh-so-politely declined. “Perhaps she’s just frightened of you.”

Cersei had glared at him for that, but Jaime knew she was secretly pleased by the comment.

“So that’s my dear nephew’s betrothed?” Renly’s voice broke through his thoughts, as he sidled up next to Jaime.

He raised a brow at the boy but shrugged. “The king intends for her to be,” he replied dismissively, a subtle reminder that no betrothal vows had been made as of yet. That was a fact he wasn’t likely to forget, as it had been drilled into his mind by Cersei’s constant ranting.

They watched as Sansa Stark moved towards the Stark’s side of the camp to speak with one of the girls that had traveled with her, her direwolf following loyally at her heels.

Renly chuckled. “Well, I don’t think we have to worry about Joffrey taking any liberties with her. Not with that wolf of hers about.”

Jaime hoped Joffrey had enough sense to not try and take liberties with the Hand’s daughter prior to being wed to her, but who knew what kind of sense the boy actually had with Robert has his fatherly example.

“I’m sure if the wolf dares to get her teeth anywhere near Joffrey, Cersei will have its pelt,” he said flippantly. Honestly, though, Jaime thought the other girl’s wolf was the more worrisome of the two. While Sansa’s wolf seemed gentle enough, the other Stark girl’s wolf had a wild edge to it that Jaime did not like.

“Well, I guess since Robert never got the she-wolf he wanted, it’s only fitting that his son does,” Renly quipped.

Jaime didn’t answer that. Lyanna Stark was a subject he didn’t care to dwell on. The woman Rhaegar was obsessed enough with to kidnap, and the woman Robert would never feel Cersei was good enough to replace. What had been so special about Lyanna Stark that made would-be kings’ heads turn anyway? She could not have been more lovely than Cersei. No one was more lovely than Cersei.

So why did Robert cherish her mere memory more than he had ever cherished his wife?

 

#

 

Jeyne made a face at her as Sansa rode off with Arya and the butcher’s boy. Well, she and Arya were riding. Mycah was jogging lightly at their side, eyes constantly drawn to Lady and Nymeria in a mixture of awe and apprehension.

The butcher’s boy was nice enough, Sansa supposed, but he would never have been her first choice to spend her time with. Neither would Arya, really, though her little sister had really been a blessing these past few weeks.

Arya was much better at coming up with excuses than her. Whenever Joffrey would extend an invitation on his mother’s behalf, Arya was quick to speak up, putting on her best whiny voice and reminding Sansa of a promise to do this or that with her. Promises that Sansa had never made, but Joffrey and the queen didn’t know that.

Not that those promises were ever to do things that Sansa particularly _wanted_ to do, but there wasn’t much that Sansa _did_ want to do on the road.

She sighed as she settled under a tree with Lady, hugging her wolf’s neck and propping her chin on the top of her head. Arya and Mycah were splashing about on the banks of the river, looking for rubies, her sister had said.

It was stupid, she thought. If any rubies from Rhaegar’s armor had fallen into the Trident, they were probably long found in the years since. Sansa hadn’t said anything, though. With Arya constantly saving her from Joffrey and the queen, she felt it best to keep her comments to herself.

She knew, of course, that she would eventually have to get to know both Joffrey and the queen, as it was very likely that the betrothal would happen and she would have to see it through to marriage. That didn’t mean she couldn’t put it off as long as possible.

She wished Jeyne had come with them. It would have been nice to have someone to talk to, especially when the other two got tired of digging in the mud and began play fighting with sticks.

“You don’t hold a sword like that,” Arya told the butcher’s boy as he swung the stick with both hands spread wide at the base. Sansa could see what she meant. Even _she_ could tell that his hands were placed too far apart. His left hand would be gripping the blade if it were a real sword.

Mycah scowled at her. “How would you know?” he asked petulantly. “You’re a girl!”

“That doesn’t mean she doesn’t have eyes,” Sansa retorted, coming to Arya’s defense out of boredom more than anything else. “Any idiot would know that the hilt of a sword that size would not be that big.”

Anger flashed across his face. “I’m no idiot!” he snapped. He paled, though, as he remembered who he was speaking to. “I’m sorry, m’lady,” the boy apologized hastily, lowing his eyes.

Before either Sansa or Arya could say another word, though, two horses burst through the trees and interrupted them. Sansa barely suppressed a groan as she recognized Joffrey and the Hound as the riders.

Still, she remembered her manners and stood as they dismounted. “My prince,” she greeted demurely.

“What’s going on here?” Joffrey demanded, eyeing the stick in Mycah’s hand and reaching for his sword.

“My sister and her friend were digging for rubies in the river,” Sansa was quick to reply, not wanting the prince to know that the two were mock-fighting. Though the butcher’s boy was more Arya’s friend than hers, she didn’t want to see him punished for something _Arya_ had initiated. 

“Rubies?” he replied with a scornful laugh. “Why would there be _rubies_ in the Trident?”

“Rhaegar’s armor was bashed in by King Robert’s warhammer on this river,” Arya argued with a glare. “Everyone knows Rhaegar wore rubies on his armor.”

“That doesn’t mean they’re in the river, stupid,” Joffrey sneered.

“Don’t call my sister stupid!” Sansa said hotly, never mind that she regularly called Arya stupid and had, in fact, thought that looking for Rhaegar’s rubies was stupid herself.

The prince’s cold and angry green eyes turned to glare at her. “I’ll call her stupid if I like,” he told her. “Especially if she is stupid.”

Sansa could almost feel Lady tensing at her side even as Nymeria growled from somewhere behind her. She suddenly felt a prickling of fear as she took in the hateful gleam in Joffrey’s eyes.

“I’m sure the little bird meant no offense, princeling,” the Hound’s irreverent voice cut through the tension. “Little birds don’t usually have big brains, after all.”

There was a beat of silence before Joffrey snorted, and Sansa felt herself relax, Lady taking a cue from her mistress and relaxing as well.

“I suppose it’s true that girls don’t typically have much wit,” the prince remarked airily. “That’s not what they were made for, after all.”

Sansa shot a meaningful look to Arya, who looked ready to give Joffrey a scathing response. For once in her life, her sister heeded her and kept quiet.

“May we join you?” the prince asked, the very picture of chivalry in his polite tone. Sansa could hardly believe that she had been so frightened of him mere moments earlier.

“The queen expects us back shortly,” the Hound reminded him gruffly before Sansa could answer. “We’ve been gone too long as it is.”

Joffrey looked far from pleased at that but nodded grudgingly, daringly grabbing Sansa’s hand and brushing a kiss across the back before smoothly mounting his horse. “We _shall_ find an opportunity to spend time together yet, my lady,” he told her in an almost threatening tone. “Let’s go, dog.”

“You can’t marry him,” Arya declared as soon as they were out of hearing distance. She rounded on Sansa with a fierce glare. “He’s terrible!”

Sansa made a face. “I don’t have much of a choice,” she replied, sinking to the ground and wrapping her arms around Lady, trying to draw strength from the direwolf.

“If Father knew—”

“It wouldn’t matter,” Sansa cut her off. “He promised the king. I can only get out of it if I find my soulmate before we marry, and I don’t even have my mark yet.”

Arya scowled for a bit before her face brightened. “Then we’re going to have to find a way to force your mark to come in.”

“There’s no way to do that,” she pointed out glumly.

“Sure there is!” Arya said excitedly. “There’s tons of songs and stories about soulmarks coming in because people _wanted_ them to!”

“Those are _stories_ ,” Sansa told her in exasperation. “That doesn’t mean they’re _real_.”

“Father always said that all stories start with a seed of truth,” she insisted. “If we figure out _how_ those people got their marks to come in, we can make _yours_ come in before you have to marry Joffrey.”

Sansa desperately wanted Arya’s plan to work, but she had never heard of _anyone_ outside of stories willing their soulmark to appear. Then again, she never heard of anyone riding a dragon outside of stories but she _knew_ those stories were true.

So who was to say that these weren’t as well?

tbc…


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've decided to branch out with my POVs in order to tell a more complete story. Hope this chapter came out alright!

Robb strode through the corridors in determination, Ghost close on his heels. Grey Wind had taken to prowling about at night, hunting in the godswood usually, but Ghost was ever at his side while he was awake. It had been nearly two weeks since the assassin’s attack and Jon and Theon’s departure from Winterfell, but the days seemed longer without Jon. His wound still troubled him a bit, but it was healing nicely, though Maester Luwin still insisted his right arm be bound to his chest so as not to agitate the shoulder.

Despite his injury, he had found himself taking up more and more of the care of Winterfell in the past weeks, which he was happy for because it distracted him from Jon’s absence, but he could not take on the care of his youngest brother as well. Rickon had taken up following him everywhere, tearfully begging Robb not to leave him too. His tears broke Robb’s already crumbling heart, and after he had put the young boy to sleep, he had decided that enough was enough.

“Mother, this has to stop,” he declared, sweeping into Bran’s bedroom. “I understand you’re upset about Bran, but that is _not_ an excuse for you to abandon your other children for over a month.”

If he were honest, his bitterness didn’t just stem from her neglect of Rickon. He was still very upset that she had separated him from Jon, no matter how understandable her reasons might have been.

“I can’t leave him, Robb,” she croaked, raising her head from where she had it rested on the bed next to Bran’s hand. 

Robb had never seen her look so unkempt. Her greasy hair was pinned back in a haphazard fashion, and he would wager that she had not changed her gown in at least two days. Heavy bags under her eyes spoke of how little she had slept in the past weeks, and the tray of untouched food sat at the end of the bed told him that she probably had eaten either.

If he didn’t get her to come to her senses, he realized with dawning horror, then they might lose her as well.

“Mother, please,” he pleaded, putting aside his anger with her and stepping closer to place a hand on her shoulder. “You must come back to us. I can’t…” he trailed off with a choked off noise, but Catelyn didn’t so much as look at him, keeping her eyes on the motionless boy on the bed.

Robb blinked back tears. Father was gone, taking Sansa and Arya with him, and there was no one to turn to who could tell him what he should do. Theon had left as well, leaving him no friend to support him. And Jon…

He squeezed his eyes shut at the thought of Jon. He needed his bonded here. Needed him more than he needed air. Jon had been his constant companion throughout his life, the one person who never failed to keep him grounded. Without him, he felt like he was drowning.

A loud gasp broke him out of his thoughts. “ _Bran!_ ” his mother’s raspy voice cried.

His eyes snapped to his brother’s face, shocked to find his brother’s deep blue eyes blinking slowly as the room came into focus for him. They finally focused on the direwolf that suddenly jumped onto of his legs.

“Summer,” Bran said with an eerily calm smile.

“Bran!” Catelyn cried again, rising from her seat and tugging the boy into her arms as happy tears streamed down her face. “Oh, my baby!”

Robb shook himself out of his shock as he felt his feet move forward to settle at Bran’s other side. After believing for weeks that he would never again see his brother awake, seeing him awake and aware was overwhelming.

“Bran,” he murmured, pulling him from his mother’s arms to embrace him as well, dropping a kiss to the top of his head. “I’m glad you’re awake, brother.”

A trickle of hope welled inside of him at Bran’s miraculous awakening. He had thought his younger brother lost, and yet he was wrong.

Perhaps things were not as dire as he had previously believed.

 

#

 

Jon frowned as the sun shining in through the porthole ripped him out of his dream. It had been a good dream. Well, it hadn’t started out good. It started with Robb in anguish, but it ended with him happy. Bran had woken up, and Robb and Lady Catelyn had been taking turns embracing him when Jon jerked away. 

In his mind, he knew it was just a dream, but in his heart, he desperately hoped it was true. It was much better than the dreams he had where Robb was lying despondently in their bed, staring morosely at Jon’s empty side. Those he didn’t want to be true, though he had a sneaking sensation that they were probably not far from the mark. Even though they had only shared a bed for a little over a week, Jon himself was having difficulties falling asleep without Robb’s strong presence beside him.

He shook the dreams away and saw that Theon was already up and dressing. He hastened to do the same.

“If you think anyone on this ship isn’t aware of our status, you’re dumber than you look,” Theon told him testily. “They know how much silver you paid for the cabin and can see the quality of clothing.”

Jon barely resisted rolling his eyes as he laced up his boots. Theon had complained at every turn of their journey thus far. Jon had hoped that being on a ship would sooth the ironborn heir, but apparently the tiny cabin that they shared on the galley was beneath him. If Theon had his way, they would have each had private cabins, with Theon taking the captain’s own cabin for himself.

“Two unknown highborn men sneaking into King’s Landing might draw attention, but not as much as the nephew and ward of the new Hand of the King,” Jon replied, trying to keep his irritation out of his voice. Besides, what should he have done? Pretend to be baseborn and sleep with the crew? Theon would never had consented to that, and Jon wasn’t so sure they would be able to pull it off anyway.

Theon scoffed. “One look at that bonding cuff on your wrist, and everyone will know who you are.”

Jon’s eyes automatically went to the cuff covering his soulmark. Sturdy steel of shining silver, with two direwolves, one dark grey, one bright white, crossing heads with each other and runes of the First Men etched around the band, it had been a surprise gift from Robb on the morning of his departure.

“I can’t go with you myself,” his bonded had said, blue eyes telling Jon how much he hated that fact. “But I hope you’ll think of me when you wear this,” he had continued, snapping the cuff in place and giving a gentle tug to ensure the soft leather padding made the fit comfortable.

“I don’t need a piece of jewelry to remind me of you. But how did you get this so quickly?” Jon had asked, running a finger over the wolves in awe.

“I had them commissioned that first day after my mark came in,” Robb had admitted. “After Father told us everything, I thought we might need something to hide our marks.”

Bonding cuffs were a custom with a mixed following in the North. There were some Northerners who believed that hiding soulmarks was the equivalent to being ashamed of them. Others, though, saw it as a sign of respect for the intimacy of the bond. The Starks, he knew, had traditionally worn their marks openly and proudly.

It meant a lot that Robb had gone against his family’s tradition for him.

“Them?” he had inquired shyly, smiling as Robb gestured towards the matching cuff on the bedside table that Jon hadn’t noticed.

“Put it on me?”

They had shared a tender smile as Jon snapped the cuff in place before leaning down to kiss one final time before Jon was forced to depart.

It was a memory that he would cherish until he returned to Winterfell.

Theon was right, he knew as he tugged his sleeve down to hide the cuff as much as possible. The crew of the galley had no doubt noticed the finely wrought metal on his wrist. One or two of them had to have gotten a close enough look to see the direwolves on the cuff and connected him with House Stark.

It would have been worse, though, if any of them had caught sight of his soulmark. He did _not_ need a rumor floating around about a highborn sneaking into King’s Landing with a dragon and a direwolf on his wrist.

“They might suspect, but they don’t know,” Jon insisted. “And we’ll be in King’s Landing by nightfall. It won’t be hard to disappear into the city.”

“You’ll have us lodging in some thrice-damned inn in Flea Bottom, no doubt,” Theon sneered in disdain. “You might have gotten so accustomed to taking it up the arse to not mind being raped and robbed, but I’d rather not risk it.”

Jon saw red at that and had crossed the room and pinned Theon against the wall with hand around his neck before he even realized what he was doing. “You will _not_ speak of my relationship with Robb again in such terms,” he hissed. “Do not even _think_ of it.”

The ironborn’s eyes flashed in anger as he shoved Jon away roughly. “You forget yourself, _Stark_ ,” he growled, voice dripping with sarcasm as he spat the name. “You may not be the baseborn bastard we all took you for, but you are still the spawn of a third son with no land and no inheritance. I am the heir to the Lord Reaper of Pyke!”

“A traitor who rebelled against the crown in order to let his people reave and rape whoever they please,” Jon retorted, shoving him back.

“My father simply wanted to return the Iron Islands to their former glory by bringing back our noble traditions!” he argued back, standing toe to toe with Jon now.

His lip curled in disgust. “The same noble traditions that require men to kill their soulmates if they aren’t ironborn?”

Theon gave him an ugly smirk. “The ironborn do not suffer ourselves to be bound to weak men and women. Be happy Robb does,” he quipped, pushing past Jon and leaving the cabin before he could respond.

Jon clenched his fist as he forced down his anger. He couldn’t let Theon get under his skin. The older man was purposefully being spiteful in hopes of doing just that. Theon always saw Jon as a rival. If he were honest, he was guilty of the same thing. If their positions had been reversed and _Theon_ had been Robb’s soulmate…

His heart ached at the thought. He knew it wasn’t the same. Robb and Theon’s relationship had always been different than Robb and Jon’s, and he was positive that Theon did not have romantic feelings for Robb, but the point remained. If Theon had gained the absolute acceptance of the Stark family, had _become_ a Stark, while Jon remained the baseborn bastard relegated to the back of the hall during feasts, he’d be jealous too.

And while he would likely not lash out the way Theon was, he could understand the reaction.

That did not, however, give Theon the right to speak ill of his relationship with Robb.

With that in mind, he stalked to the deck to find the ironborn, stopping in his tracks, though, as he caught sight of the city, which was much closer than he had expected. His heart pounded in his chest as he felt fear creep into him at the sight of the Red Keep in the dawn light.

If anyone in that castle found out that he was a Targaryen, his life was forfeit. Not only his life, but the lives of his family as well. He could only hope that if the king ever did find out, his father’s friendship with him would be enough for Robert to spare his Hand’s life, or at least not to spread the blame to Eddard’s blameless wife and children.

Not that it would matter. Jon knew in his heart that Robb, at least, would never forsake him, even if the king commanded it.

He would just have to ensure that no one ever found out, he decided. That was the only thing would keep them all safe.

He spotted Theon near the bow of the ship and hesitated. He had planned on continuing their argument from before, impressing into the other man that he would not tolerate any slights against his soulbond, but now, in the shadow of his enemies’ keep, it did not seem wise.

Theon was his ally in his mission. If they continued to but heads, their time in King’s Landing would be unnecessarily prolonged. It was better to play nice and get their job done.

With that in mind, he approached the Greyjoy heir. “We are sure to arrive before the king’s party,” he began as if nothing had happened in the cabin. “Which will give us time to investigate the dagger before the owner gets back.”

“And how exactly are we supposed to go about that?” Theon asked sardonically. “Neither of us have ever been to King’s Landing, and we know nobody here. We’re more likely to find ourselves lost and easy targets for criminals.”

Though his tone was mean, Theon had a point. They were strangers to the city and very much alone. The two of them might have been well trained in combat by Ser Rodrik, but there were numerous situations where that wouldn’t mean much. 

Their journey to White Harbor had been easy. They were both familiar enough with and to the North that they were able to travel alone and unmolested. King’s Landing was different.

“We’ll stay in an inn in one of the more reputable areas in the city. The city guards likely patrol those areas more closely in order to keep the richer citizens appeased,” Jon reasoned, not really wanting to be a target for criminals either. With the fine quality of their attire, they were sure to be more noticeable in a place like Flea Bottom. He could picture Robb’s scowl if he learned they had stayed someplace so dangerous. “As for investigating the dagger, well, someone had to have made it.”

Which is how they ended up on the Street of Steel, the sound of smith hammers ringing in their ears. They had settled into an inn on the Hook, not far from the Red Keep itself. Jon wasn’t thrilled with being so close to the castle, but he told himself there was nothing to worry about. The king had not yet returned, and when he did, Jon had already planned to go to the Red Keep to seek out his father anyway. 

After asking around a bit, they discovered that there was only one smith who knew how to work Valyrian steel in King’s Landing. It was a stroke of luck, and Jon was sure they would soon learn who the dagger belonged to.

Tobho Mott’s shop was at the very top of the Street of Steel, not far from the Sept of Baelor. Jon couldn’t help but absently wonder how often the devout’s prayers were interrupted by the loud sound of metal hitting metal that emanated from the shop.

Jon’s heart nearly stopped as he stepped into the shop only to be greeted with the sight of the king. He forced himself to breath, though, when the man stepped closer and he realized he _couldn’t_ be the king.

For one, he was around Jon’s age, with muscles that had not turned to fat like the king’s. For another, he was dressed in sweat-stained clothes of a quality he was sure Robert Baratheon would never wear.

Still, the resemblance was impossible to miss.

“M’lords,” he greeted politely, if a bit gruffly. Since he wasn’t older than him, Jon would guess that he was an apprentice. “Are you picking up or ordering?”

“Neither,” Jon answered, his voice coming back to him as his heart slowed to a normal pace. He would have to get his fear under control, he told himself firmly. He was sure to run into the king when he went to his father with the dagger, and he couldn’t afford to let the man know he was afraid. “We’ve come to inquire about a piece your master might have made.”

“I’ll take it from here, boy,” an older smith barked, stepping in front of the apprentice. “Tobho Mott, at your service, my lords. How might I help you?”

“Have you seen this dagger before?” Jon asked, pulling the blade out of his belt with his left hand and holding it out for the old smith to inspect.

“I’m afraid not,” Mott replied, barely even glancing at the dagger. Jon frowned at that. What kind of smith did not even bat an eye when offered such a dagger to inspect?

“Are you sure?” Theon pressed.

The smith eyed them coldly. “Even if I had seen it, I would not speak of it, my lords. You’ve come to me to find the owner, and there are few reasons you’d do that,” he said shrewdly. “My customers rely on my discretion in such situations. I would suggest you leave now.”

Jon glanced at the apprentice, who was eyeing them with a deep furrow between his brow, but he didn’t think the other man would be much help either. “Thank you anyway, master smith,” he said politely before following Theon out of the shop.

“That old weasel made that blade,” Theon declared as soon as they were outside. “You should have made him tell you who he sold it to.”

“Made how?” Jon asked in exasperation, walking in the direction of their inn.

“You should’ve held the dagger to his throat and then see what he had to say,” he replied sullenly.

“We’re supposed to be _discreet_ ,” he reminded him. “And Father would not approve of us going around threatening people with violence for answers.”

“He’s not _my_ father,” Theon pointed out with a sneer. “And he’s not _yours_ either.”

Jon bit back a scathing remark at that, instead opting for a more measured response. “He raised me and cared for me all these years. He’s the only father I’ve known.”

The ironborn didn’t reply, and they walked back to the inn in silence. What Theon did for the rest of the night, Jon didn’t know. He himself had a quiet supper sent to his room and retired to bed early, thankful that the floor was no longer swaying beneath him.

He closed his eyes, hoping to dream of Robb once more.

 

#

 

“Willas tells me you’ve received a raven from Loras,” Olenna announced as she settled down with the rest of the family for breakfast. She leveled her gaze on Margaery’s father. “He said there was something in it about a great tournament in King’s Landing?”

Margaery saw her brother Garlan sit up straight at that, even as Leonette pursed her lips in distaste. Her dainty sister-in-law, she knew, had no great love for the rough sporting of tournaments. Margaery, though, knew her grandmother well enough to know that she did not bring the tournament up because she had an appreciation for the play-fighting either.

“He may have mentioned that Lord Renly was sure his brother was sure to want to host a tourney in the new Hand’s honor,” Mace replied good-naturedly, giving his mother an affable smile. “I hadn’t thought you would be interested in the news, Mother.”

“On the contrary,” Olenna remarked with a smile, reaching over to pat Margaery’s hand. “I think such a tournament would be just the event for our Margaery to make her debut at court.”

Her eyes widened as she realized what her grandmother was doing for her, and she turned towards her father with a hopeful look. “Please, Father. I would love to visit King’s Landing.”

Mace hummed thoughtfully before looking to her mother. “What do you think, my dear?”

“I think all the Seven Kingdoms should know what a beautiful rose our sweetling has become,” Alerie replied after a moment’s contemplation. “But such a debut would surely upstage the Hand’s debut to the city. Perhaps Lord Stark will take offense?”

Margaery didn’t bother asking why her arrival at King’s Landing should cause such a stir so as to upstage the Hand. She didn’t have to. She knew her parents would settle for nothing less than a grand entrance with half the household as her entourage.

“From what I know of Lord Stark, he’s not a man to care for much attention,” Mace said. “Why, the only tourney I remember ever seeing him at was the tourney at Harrenhal! He was barely noticeable in the shadows of his brothers and sister, and I got the feeling he preferred it that way!” He gave a little chortle at that. “The only time I saw him without them is when his brothers practically threw him into a dance with Ashara Dayne.”

“I think Ned Stark will forgive us for stealing his thunder if we bring with us one of his children’s soulmates,” Olenna declared with a smirk.

Her son sputtered through a mouthful of juice while her mother blinked in surprise. Willas, Margaery noticed, didn’t seem surprised, meaning her grandmother had brought her oldest brother into this little conspiracy of hers.

Garlan was the first to overcome his shock and laughed out loud. “How long will you make him wait before letting him know, though?” her brother asked with a knowing grin. “I’m sure you won’t give up sweet Margaery to a bunch of Northerners before you know their measure.”

Olenna scoffed. “We’re not giving Margaery up at all. This will be a bond of _equals_. We’ll make sure these Starks understand that before any of them catches a glimpse of her wrist.”

Margaery kept her face pleasantly impassive as she took a sip of juice, but inside she was a bit unhappy with her grandmother’s plan. What if her soulmate resented her for not showing them her mark sooner? Or for hiding it from their family? She understood the importance of knowing who you were aligning yourself with before aligning with them, but wasn’t it too late for that? With a Stark soulmate, their families were _already_ irreversibly intertwined.

Her father, thankfully, could be counted on to disapprove of such duplicity. Despite her grandmother’s despair over her son’s lack of political acumen, Margaery had always admired her father’s style of politics. He was pleasant with his allies and enemies alike, and rarely bothered with playing games. It led to him being a rather well-liked lord, even if he wasn’t particularly respected by his peers.

Margaery wasn’t sure she wouldn’t rather be well-liked than respected.

“Northerners aren’t likely to be pleased by being pawns in southron games,” he warned Olenna.

“Well, we won’t phrase it that way,” Olenna said dismissively with a wave of her hand. “Surely Lord Stark won’t begrudge us protecting our sweet rose. He has daughters of his own, yes?”

Mace stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to make an appearance at the Hand’s tournament. _If_ there is a tournament,” he added as an afterthought. “The Hand might not want one. Or the king may change his mind.”

“We shall be ready to depart for King’s Landing regardless,” Alerie stated before sighing. “I had hoped we would be able to make Margaery queen though…”

“The oldest Stark girl is set to marry Joffrey, Loras says, and Tommen is too young,” Mace reminded her before he brightened. “Being sister to the queen still puts her in a nice position, especially if she can become her friend and confidante right away.”

Margaery beamed at that. Though her father didn’t know it, he had just given her just the excuse she needed to befriend the Starks right away, without bothering with any coy games her grandmother might suggest.

Sansa Stark wasn’t much younger than she was, after all, and they were of equal status. Surely it was only natural that she gravitate towards the Hand’s daughter in search of a friend?

 

#

 

He frowned down at the thick stew. It smelled heavenly, even if it was more expensive than any meal he had ever purchased. This was not an inn that he had ever visited before. Most of the patrons around him were either highborn or well-off merchants, all of whom eyed him in disdain as he walked to the dark corner and ordered the meal.

He probably shouldn’t have bought the stew, but it had smelled so good and he figured it’d be suspicious if he didn’t order anything. 

The two lords from the other day were staying here, he knew. It had taken a little bit of asking around to find out, but he had found them.

He still hadn’t quite decided if he was going to talk to them or not. It’d be risking his job, he knew, and he _needed_ his job. Master Mott had been good to him, and he was in no position to go wasting that.

But he had seen the direwolves on the cuff of one of them. They were from House Stark.

He rubbed his left wrist self-consciously before digging into the stew, groaning as the flavor exploding on his tongue. 

He was just sopping of up last dregs of the stew with a bit of bread when they walked in.

He stuffed the bread in his mouth before downing his ale in one go. Taking a deep breath, he stood and strode towards them before he could change his mind.

“M’lords!” he greeted, dunking his head a bit. 

The one who wore the wolf bonding cuff looked at him in instant recognition, but the other just sneered at him.

“You’re the apprentice from Master Tobho Mott’s shop,” the former recalled. Though he seemed friendly enough, there was a wariness in his eyes. “I’m sorry, but we didn’t catch your name.” His companion appeared uncaring with him and scanned the common room in boredom. He obviously didn’t care what his name was.

“Gendry, m’lord,” he answered, not daring to ask who he was speaking to. He might not be smart, but he wasn’t stupid enough to not realize that these men were traveling without sigil or guard for a reason. “I wanted to tell you about that dagger, if you were still interested.”

They both focused on him at that, suspicion in their eyes.

“At what price?” the wolf lord’s companion asked.

Gendry shook his head. “No price,” he said, knowing there were many a people in his position that would squeeze as much gold from these lordlings as possible. He wasn’t going to do that though. Some things were more important than money.

“Why?” the wolf lord asked.

Gendry tried to meet his eyes with his head held high, but quickly realized that he was taller than the lord and had to lower his head a bit to look at him. He flustered a bit at that, but told himself that this was the right thing to do.

“For my soulmate,” he told them proudly.

tbc…


	7. Chapter Seven

Jaime rode through the Gate of the Gods slightly behind Robert and Ned Stark. He had planned on riding beside Cersei’s wheelhouse, but Selmy had insisted he guard the king with him and leave the queen to Ser Meryn and Ser Boros.

Their journey had been thankfully uneventful, though he knew Cersei was still peeved that the Stark girl had managed to evade every attempt she made to sink her claws into her. She was convinced the girl was plotting against her. Jaime just barely resisted rolling his eyes every time Cersei began raving about the girl. He had watched her from afar. He was certain she was too simple-minded to be the manipulative she-demon Cersei believed her to be.

They rode through King’s Landing at a deliberate pace. Robert may not be a very good king, but he was very good at getting the people to love him. And the people did love a king who smiled and waved at them boisterously as he rode past. Never mind the fact that he did nothing else but eat, drink, whore, and hunt.

People really were quite idiotic, Jaime mused in contempt.

They were nearly to the gates of the Red Keep when Jaime spotted him. If he hadn’t been staring at the people in disgust, he probably wouldn’t have even noticed him. As it was, though, his eyes just happened to land on the youth who was boldly watching them from near the middle of the crowd.

If he had hoped to blend in, he was not doing so good a job. Whereas the merchants and lower nobility that had gathered in the more well-to-do area of King’s Landing were wearing fine linens, silks, and velvets, he was dressed in a high-quality leather jerkin with a sword strapped to his waist.

That was enough to draw Jaime’s attention. The arrogant bearing of the little lordling was enough to jar his memory.

Theon Greyjoy.

The ironborn noticed Jaime’s scrutiny, trying to act casually and blend further into the crowd. It didn’t work. Greyjoy was not the kind of person who knew how to melt quietly into the background. Jaime’s eyes narrowed, and the boy seemed to panic a bit, visibly debating whether he should run or not.

Jaime barely hesitated before he called out, “Hold!”

The royal party halted, the king and Hand looking back to him with furrowed brows. Barristan pulled his horse alongside of him, no doubt to ask what was wrong, but Jaime was already moving, galloping over to the crowd, the people scrambling to part for him. Greyjoy turned to run, but Jaime had already swung off his horse to grab him by the back of his collar.

He wasn’t sure what the boy was doing in King’s Landing when he was supposed to be in Winterfell, but he hadn’t forgotten how treacherous the ironborn were. If Greyjoy had managed to get away from Winterfell and had come here instead of the Iron Islands, Jaime had to assume he did not have good intentions.

And while he honestly did not care if something happened to Robert, he was not going to let this treacherous wretch harm Cersei or her children.

“Seven hells, Ned, what is your hostage doing here?” the king asked his Hand in loud exasperation.

The Greyjoy boy bristled at being called a _hostage_ , which amused Jaime to no end. Did the boy honestly not understand what he was to the Starks?

Lord Stark didn’t look pleased to see the boy. His younger daughter dared to ride her horse a bit closer to get a better look, while the other leaned forward on her own horse to see.

“Theon, why are you in King’s Landing?” he demanded in a calm, measured voice.

Greyjoy flushed, but stood proud despite Jaime’s hold on his collar. “Lady Stark sent me, my lord. Your nephew and I sailed from White Harbor to meet you and deliver a message.”

“Does your wife not know what ravens are for, Ned?” Robert said with a booming laugh, though Jaime noticed that he had straightened in interest at the allusion to Jon Stark. Perhaps Robert, buffoon though he was, was as suspicious as Tyrion and Cersei about Ned’s explanations concerning the boy. 

It was also very curious how tense Stark became when he learned his nephew was near.

“Well, go ahead!” Robert insisted. “Give Lord Stark his message!”

Theon’s blush deepened at the command. “We were commanded to give it only to Lord Stark. In private.”

Jaime barely suppressed a smirk at that. He was sure this private message must have been about the injured boy that had caught him and Cersei. Good. It meant the boy was dead. While he wasn’t exactly thrilled to have killed a ten-year-old, better the boy than Cersei or himself.

Ned turned to the king. “Your grace, I’d rather like to tend to this message immediately. It must be important if Cat sent Jon and Theon all this way.”

Robert waved him off. “Go on, Ned, and be quick about it. The small council will meet when you return. And when you’re done, bring them up to the Red Keep. I’d like a chance to get to know your nephew better.”

Ned looked far from happy, but nodded. “Of course, your grace.” He looked back towards the captain of his guards. “Jory, see the girls to the tower.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The younger girl looked ready to argue, but kept quiet at a glance from her father.

Jaime frowned as he released Greyjoy and let him leave with Stark. He would have loved to follow them. While he _knew_ Ned Stark was far too honorable to be plotting against Robert, he would not put it past him to be scheming against the Lannisters.

Well, scheming was probably too strong a word. Righteously undermining them in the most honorable way possible.

Maybe a month ago he would never have been suspicious of Stark. And maybe he wouldn’t be now if it weren’t for Cersei and Tyrion’s suspicions.

But Jon Stark arriving in King’s Landing with no warning after the sudden reveal he was trueborn, with the son of a traitor in tow no less, was definitely worrisome.

But for the life of him, Jaime couldn’t figure out what kind of plot Stark could be playing.

 

#

 

After Gendry had told them about the dagger’s origins, Jon had decided it was best if they lay low until his father arrived. Theon had scoffed at him and called him a coward, but the ironborn heir seemed oblivious to the danger they had unwittingly walked into.

It was even more important now to not garner the attention of anyone but his father, _especially_ not the king’s. He had no idea how he was going to get them into the Red Keep to see his father, though. The gold cloaks guarding the gates were definitely not going to let them in without declaring themselves. 

He had originally planned to ride into the Red Keep openly when his father arrived. Yes, the king and the Lannisters made him uneasy, but after the message had been delivered, he and Theon would depart for Winterfell. Now, with what Gendry had said, the message itself had become a lot more perilous, and he wasn’t so sure if that delivering it openly was wise anymore.

Figuring out how to get into the Red Keep was rendered moot, though, when his door opened abruptly, his father striding in with Theon on his heels.

“Father!” Jon cried, rising to his feet in wide-eyed surprise. “How did you know we were here?”

Ned shot a displeased frown at the Greyjoy heir. “After Theon was spotted by Jaime Lannister, I’d be surprised if the entire city doesn’t know you are here before the day is out.”

He glared at Theon. “We were supposed to be keeping a low profile.”

The ironborn rolled his eyes in response. “Why should we hide like criminals when we’ve done nothing wrong?”

“Because it doesn’t matter if we’ve done anything wrong when the king himself is against us!” he shot back.

“If we can believe some baseborn apprentice from Flea Bottom,” Theon scoffed.

“Enough!” his father cut in before another word could be said, leveling Jon with a serious gaze. “Explain.”

He gulped, dunking his head apologetically as he remembered Ned didn’t know what had happened in Winterfell.

“An assassin attacked Bran in Winterfell,” he told him. “He didn’t succeed, but Robb was injured before Bran’s direwolf killed him.” Jon swallowed thickly, trying to block the memory of his bonded lying on the floor in a pool of blood. 

“Lady Catelyn sent us to King’s Landing to tell you and investigate the origins of this dagger he used,” he continued, gesturing towards the dagger lying on the table in front of him.

His father’s face had taken on a grim countenance. He took the dagger in hand and examined in closely. “What have you found out?”

“The dagger was crafted for Petyr Baelish,” Jon answered, the name meaning little to him though he had gleaned enough from Gendry to learn that he was a lord on the king’s small council. “He lost it at a tournament after betting on the Kingslayer.”

“Lost it to whom?”

“The king,” he replied gravely, knowing his words were far from welcome.

There was a beat of silence before Ned turned his eyes to Theon. “Leave us.”

Theon looked taken aback, but didn’t argue, shooting a final glare towards Jon before leaving the room. Ned waited a few moments for him to truly be gone, going so far as to open the door to check that the ironborn heir wasn’t lurking about to eavesdrop, before he turned back to Jon with a deep furrow in his brow.

“You should not have come here,” he stated, jaw tight in anger.

Jon winced. “I know,” he said softly, looking down in shame. “I apologize for the position I’ve put you in.”

“Never mind the position I’m in, I care about the danger _you_ are in,” Ned snapped impatiently before lowering his voice. “Jon, I’ve already had to convince the king that there was no need to kill a Targaryen child hundreds of miles away across the Narrow Sea who poses no immediate threat to him. What do you think he’ll do if he learns there is trueborn Targaryen son in his own court?”

“He won’t find out,” he was quick to assure, pushing back the fear that threatened to engulf him. There was nothing to be afraid of. He had fulfilled his task and could go home to Robb now. “We’ve done what Lady Catelyn bid. Theon and I will leave for Winterfell tonight.”

“It’s not that simple,” his father told him with a fierce shake of his head. “The king wants you to come back to the Red Keep with me. If you refuse, it may raise suspicions.”

Jon bit the inside of his lip to keep himself from begging his father to send him back to Winterfell. With every moment he spent in King’s Landing, the dread inside his stomach festered, and his heart throbbed with the ache of missing Robb.

He didn’t want to make his father’s position in King’s Landing more difficult though. Not on top of the news of the attempt on Bran’s life and the role the king may have played in it.

“Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it,” he promised, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

His father sighed. “I know you want to get back to Robb, but we must tread carefully,” he cautioned. “As soon as it’s safe, I will send you and Theon back.”

He nodded glumly before frowning, the mention of Robb sparking the memory of another soulmark. “Father, there’s more,” he said. “We may have located Sansa’s soulmate.”

Ned furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

“The apprentice who told us about the dagger,” Jon explained. “His soulmark is a grey direwolf with gold eyes pressing its forehead against the forehead of a black bull. Who else would be the direwolf?”

Truthfully, the mark hadn’t really invoked Sansa in his mind when Gendry had first shown it to him, but who else could it be? House sigils were rarely seen in soulmarks unless they were associated with the house they belonged to. 

Ned hummed thoughtfully. “If nothing else, the direwolf definitely represents someone in our household. I will have to have the boy sent for soon. I have to get back to the keep,” he said with a heavy sigh. “Gather your things and get to the Tower of the Hand. If you have to be in King’s Landing, I’d rather keep you as close to me as possible.”

Jon didn’t particularly want to stay in the same castle as the king, but he could see the wisdom of his father’s words.

Something in his face must have shown his unease because his father stepped forward and grasped both of his shoulders comfortingly. “I promise you that I will send you back to Winterfell as soon as I can,” he vowed. “But you must be strong, Jon, and _patient_. It is imperative that no one becomes suspicious of you. The safety our family depends on it.”

He took a deep breath and nodded. After everything his father had done for him, he didn’t have the right to complain about doing his part now. “I won’t disappoint you, father.”

A small smile appeared on Ned’s lips. “You never have.”

 

#

 

“Do you think Jon will stay with us?” Arya asked her hopefully even as she craned her neck to glance anxiously at the door. She had been looking every few minutes, fidgeting in her seat as she waited impatiently for their father to arrive and completely ignoring her lunch.

“Of course he won’t stay!” Jeyne answered before Sansa could. The steward’s daughter looked scandalized at the very thought. “He and Lord Robb _just_ bonded! It must be very painful for them to be separated.”

Jeyne always called Robb “Lord Robb.” Though she had never said anything, Sansa knew it was because she had always been a little bit in love with her older brother. Her friend had always dreamt of her soulmark coming in and matching Robb’s. She wondered how crushed the other girl was when his bond with Jon was announced. She didn’t dare ask, though. It was far too personal of an inquiry.

Arya’s face had fallen at Jeyne’s words, and she poked listlessly at her pheasant with her fork. In a moment of uncharacteristic commiseration, Sansa tried to reassure her, “I’m sure he’ll stay for a little while at least.”

Her younger sister gave her a cautiously hopeful look. “Really?”

Sansa forced a smile, struggling with her own desire for Jon to stay. They had never been close, she and Jon, but it would be comforting to have her older brother here. Still, she knew Jeyne was right. “If nothing else, it will take a day or two for Father to ensure he and Theon are prepared for the journey to Winterfell.”

Arya looked far from satisfied at the answer, but the door behind her opened before she could say anything more. Her head whipped around, and she gave a shout of joy as she saw Jon and Theon enter. Arya was up and running towards him before Septa Mordane could muster a protest.

To his credit, Jon didn’t look surprised, catching her easily into a hug and spinning her around with a laugh. A stab of jealousy went through Sansa. Jon had never been so carefree with _her_. None of her siblings had.

She admonished herself silently. That was her own fault. She had always been the one dedicated to being a great lady like her mother. A great _Southern_ lady. She sighed. Small wonder that she had managed to alienate her siblings, epitome of Northern values that they were.

Why hadn’t she realized that the great songs and stories about knights and southern ladies that she had loved so much could conflict with her firm belief in soulmates and bonded pairs? If she hadn’t known that Joffrey wasn’t her soulmate, if the concept of soulmates didn’t _exist_ , would she still be upset about marrying him?

Thinking of the romanticized songs she loved so much and the cruel gleam that was often in Joffrey’s eyes, she hoped she would not have been that stupid.

“Sansa?” Jon’s voice interrupted her musings, and she looked up to see him standing next to her chair with a concerned frown. “You look sad, sister.”

Her eyes watered at the endearment Jon had rarely used with her, and she threw herself into his arms with a quiet sob. “Don’t let them make me marry Joffrey,” she pleaded through her tears, knowing that if anyone would help her, Jon would. Jon had bonded with his soulmate. Father and Mother might not care about their soulmates, but Jon did. He knew how important the bond was. “Please don’t let them make me.”

“Sansa, stop acting like a child,” Septa Mordane scolded from somewhere behind her. “This behavior is unbecoming of a lady.”

“Shut _up_ , you old hag!” Arya bit back scathingly. “You don’t know _anything_ about soulmates!”

“That is enough, Arya!” Jon barked, the first time Sansa _ever_ heard him speak harshly to their younger sister. She kept her face buried in his chest as tears continued to pour out of her eyes. “And septa, you will _not_ admonish Sansa for being honest with me and asking for my help.”

She dared a look at the septa at that, whose eyes flashed as if she wanted to argue before seeming to realize that the man in front of her was no longer a bastard boy she could take to task without consequence. “Yes, my lord,” she replied deferentially.

Sansa took a deep breath and stepped away from Jon, giving him a watery smile. “Thank you, brother.”

He gave her a soft smile. “No thanks is needed,” he told her. “I promise I’ll speak to Father for you.”

“He should be pretty receptive,” Theon remarked cockily, speaking up for the first time. “Considering Jon and I may have found your soulmate.”

She started at that, looking to Jon with hopeful eyes. Her brother, though, was scowling at Theon. “We don’t _know_ Gendry is Sansa’s soulmate. It’s cruel to give her hope without knowing for certain,” he rebuked him, before giving Sansa an apologetic look. Theon scowled sullenly from behind him. “We met a boy with a direwolf in his soulmark. It may represent you, but it may not.”

Despite Jon’s cautionary words, she couldn’t help but feel optimistic. “Would the king agree to break the betrothal without my mark appearing if we knew who my bonded will be?” she asked hopefully.

“You aren’t betrothed yet,” Arya pointed out excitedly. “Maybe Father can get them to stop Joffrey from saying the vows!”

Jon opened his mouth to say something but their father entered the tower before he could. Sansa could tell by the set of his jaw that something had greatly displeased him.

“The king is insisting you stay until the end of the thrice-damned tourney he is throwing in _my_ honor,” he told Jon after dismissing Septa Mordane, Jeyne, and the servants. Sansa bit her lip at his irritable tone, knowing now was not the time to bring up the topic of her betrothal but also knowing that there wasn’t much time to do so before Joffrey took the vows in front of the High Septon. “He wants you to squire for him during the stupid thing.”

Sansa frowned. Squiring for the king was a high honor. Why did their father sound so bitter about the idea? Jon himself looked a bit sick at the idea, but he schooled his features well after a moment.

“What of the dagger?” he asked to Sansa’s confusion. She looked at Arya, who seemed to be equally confused about the conversation.

“Robert insists he had nothing to do with the assassin that went after Bran,” Ned said. Both Sansa and Arya gasped loudly at that. An _assassin_ had gone after _Bran_?!? Their father gave them a stern look. “We have come to a dangerous place, girls. You must know this and be on your guard.”

“Do you believe the king?” Jon pressed.

Their father sighed. “I want to believe him, and I cannot see what reason he would have to want Bran dead.”

“But you don’t _know_ ,” Arya said, horror in her voice. “You aren’t going to let Jon squire for a man who may have sent an assassin after Bran, are you?”

Pain spread over Ned’s face, and in sudden clarity, Sansa realized that nothing that was happening was what her father wanted. “We have to tread carefully and avoid suspicion. Turning down an honor from the king would be suspicious. Robert won’t hurt Jon. Not unless we give him a reason to.”

Sansa remembered Joffrey’s cruel eyes and privately thought that he had to have inherited it from _someone_ , but she didn’t contradict her father.

“When is the tournament?” Jon asked in a small voice.

“With the extravagance the king is insisting upon, it will be at least six weeks,” Ned told him apologetically. Jon looked devastated at the answer.

Sansa couldn’t even be excited about the prospect of a tournament, not with everything else weighing so heavily on her mind. She was sure it would be full of splendor and glory with knights and ladies that could have been straight from a song, but all she wanted was to go home to Winterfell, where she wouldn’t have to marry Joffrey and Jon could be back with Robb.

 

#

 

Brienne swung into her saddle smoothly as she glanced back once more towards the island where she had grown up. Lord Tarth had sent her to King’s Landing with a small honor guard, despite her insistence that it was unnecessary. Most of her father’s men pitied her more than anything else, seeing her as a little girl who didn’t fit in anywhere.

Well, maybe not a _little_ girl anymore. Not since she had shot up after turning twelve and had kept growing until she towered over most of them. Still, none of them saw her as an equal.

She was thankful, at least, that her father had not tried to stop her from attending the Hand’s tournament, even though he was not particularly thrilled that she was insisting on competing.

It was unlikely that they would let her into the lists, she knew, but she was going to try anyway. If she wanted people to look on her as a true knight, she would have to prove herself a valiant warrior. The Hand’s tournament was the best opportunity for her to do so.

And surely it would be the best place to find the person the shining sword on her wrist represented?

tbc…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight explanation. Lancel and Jon are around the same station and same age in the king's eye, with both being sons of second/third sons. I don't know about anyone else, but I tend to think of squires as younger, but Lancel is older than Jon if I recall correctly. Anyway, I didn't think the request would be that odd and hope no one else finds it to be!
> 
> Also, more amazing artwork from dreamsweep!  
> Margaery's soulmark: http://i68.tinypic.com/2qvh381.jpg  
> Ned's soulmark: http://i68.tinypic.com/14trc4z.jpg  
> Cat's soulmark: http://i65.tinypic.com/xfafso.jpg


	8. Chapter Eight

Two days after Jon had come to the Red Keep, his father summoned him to his solar before they went down to break their fast with the rest of the household. He stepped into the room expecting to find his father alone, so he was surprised to see Jory Cassel and the armorer’s apprentice, Gendry, present as well. Jory looked vaguely amused while Gendry’s face remained as stony as it had been in all their previous interactions.

“We’ll take our leave, my lords,” Jory said graciously. Jon was sure he would never get used to anyone calling him _lord_.

“See that the boy settles in well,” Ned told him, nodding towards Gendry. “He’ll begin his training tomorrow.”

“Aye, my lord,” he replied, dipping his head in respect with Gendry following his lead before they left.

Ned then turned his attention to Jon. “I found a curious thing in my daughter’s bedchambers yesterday,” he said, giving Jon the same look he used to give him and Robb when he caught them sneaking sticky buns from the kitchens in Winterfell. “Tell me, Jon, do you really think it appropriate to give your eleven-year-old sister a blade?”

Jon cringed internally, unable to gauge exactly how upset his father was to have found Needle among Arya’s belongings. “I’m sorry. I wanted to give her something to remember me by,” he replied truthfully. “I gave it to her when I thought I was going to the Wall.”

And because he was going to the Wall, he really hadn’t thought he would have to face his father’s disapproval. He wasn’t surprised that Ned had guessed it had been him. He and Robb were the most likely suspects, and Robb had been much to busy with the royals around to sneak to the blacksmith’s. 

Ned’s eyes softened a bit before he smirked. “Well, I think your punishment should fit your crime,” he declared, nodding towards the door. “Since you’re so eager to give out swords, you’ll also be giving out lessons. You’ll be teaching both Arya and Gendry to wield a sword.”

Jon furrowed his brow. “Teaching Arya, I understand, but wouldn’t a more experienced teacher be better for Gendry?” He couldn’t imagine a man his own age would appreciate training with an eleven-year-old girl.

“I think it’s better if we didn’t rub Robert’s bastard in the Lannisters’ faces by having him train openly with the men. You’ll train in the Small Hall away from prying eyes,” his father told him. Jon wasn’t surprised to learn that Gendry was Robert’s bastard son. He definitely looked more like a Baratheon than any of the king’s trueborn children. “Besides, two students instead of one will keep you busier. And if you are busy, you will have valid excuses to give the king.”

“Excuses?” he asked in confusion.

Ned’s mouth twisted in displeasure. “The king has requested you accompany him on a hunt today. He wants to become better _acquainted_ with you,” he scoffed. “I’m sure it won’t be the first time he’ll request your company. You’ve caught his interest.”

Apprehension crept into him at the words. “Why?”

He shook his head. “He claims he wants to get to know my trueborn nephew,” he replied, in obvious disbelief.

“He didn’t spend any time at Winterfell getting to know your trueborn son,” Jon pointed out. The king had all but ignored Robb during his time at Winterfell. Jon may not have been around either much, but the only royals that he had seen even spare a glance at Winterfell’s heir had been the princess and the two princes. Even during the hunt they had been on when Bran fell, the king hadn’t said one word to Robb. 

Granted, his bonded had been too busy trying to get _Jon’s_ attention, no doubt to talk him out of the Night’s Watch, but the king hadn’t requested to get _acquainted_ with him.

“Does he suspect…?” he let the question trail away, not comfortable speaking the words even when they were alone.

“No,” Ned stated emphatically. “Most likely, he wants to pretend you are his nephew as well,” he mused with a sad shake of his head. “He was very attached to the idea of marrying Lyanna before she died. He was sure she was going to be his soulmate.”

She wasn’t, Jon knew. She and his father, his _true_ father, had been soulmates. The stories all said that it was Rhaegar kidnapping her that led to Robert’s Rebellion. If she had only _told_ someone that her and Rhaegar were bonded, would that have saved the kingdoms from a bloody civil war?

“Are you coming on the hunt as well?” he asked.

“Someone has to stay behind and run the kingdom,” his father answered unhappily. “Theon will accompany you.”

Theon’s company didn’t make him feel any better, really. Their journey to King’s Landing had served to make their always contentious relationship even more thorny. Still, he knew Theon, no matter how ill-tempered, was an ally, for Robb’s sake if not Jon’s.

“You best go get Theon and get to the courtyard. The king is always eager to leave the keep,” Ned said dismissively, but Jon stayed put, remembering his promise to Sansa and deciding that it was a topic best not put off, especially with Joffrey set to give his betrothal vows two days hence.

“Sansa asked me to speak with you about her betrothal,” he stated, hating how the words made his father look more weary that he had ever seen him. He thought about how his sister had broken down in his arms the other day, and he persisted. “Now that we’ve found Gendry, surely it makes no sense to go through with the betrothal?”

Ned sighed heavily. “Without a mark on Sansa’s wrist, it will be difficult to justify the insult in choosing a baseborn bastard over a trueborn son,” he replied forlornly. “Robert wouldn’t mind, but the Lannisters will see it as a grave insult.”

Jon frowned. “It’s the king who rules the kingdom, not his wife’s family.”

“It’s not that simple,” he said with a shake of his head. “But I have made Robert promise that Sansa can back out of the betrothal if she finds her bonded before they wed.”

“And what guarantee do we have that the Lannisters won’t push for a wedding as soon as Sansa flowers?” he pressed. Jon was entirely sure when girls typically did so, but he knew girls who were wed when they were thirteen, as Sansa was now. Surely those girls had flowered. “Robb just recently got his soulmark, and he’s three years older than Sansa. If the royals pressure her to marry before her mark comes in…”

His father sighed again. He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. “Tell your sister that I will make the king promise that they won’t wed until she comes of age at sixteen. With a potential soulmate identified, it is a reasonable request.”

Jon nodded. He wanted to ask why he agreed to the match to begin with, but he didn’t dare. Not when his father seemed so weary as it was. Especially since he knew that _his_ presence in King’s Landing only made things worse. “Thank you, Father,” he said instead.

He left his father with his papers and his thoughts to seek out Theon, but he found Arya first.

“I swear I didn’t Father it was you who gave me Needle!” she said in a rush before he could say a word. “He just _knew_!”

“I know, little sister,” he told her with a fond smile. “But you might regret having it once I start teaching you how to use it. I won’t go easy on you.”

Her eyes widened before she grinned. “Really?” she asked in excitement.

“Really,” he confirmed. “Now have you seen Theon?”

“He is breaking his fast with the men in the Small Hall,” she replied, still smiling.

Jon nodded his thanks. “Be ready. We’ll start your lessons tomorrow,” he said before leaving her to find Theon.

At least his presence was helping his sisters a bit, even if he complicated their family’s situation overall. He held onto that cheerful thought, knowing he would need it on the hunt with the king.

 

#

 

True to form, Cersei had been quick to start her investigation into the newly discovered Jon Stark as soon as they arrived back at King’s Landing. She wasn’t very subtle about it, in Jaime’s opinion, but he supposed that was what Varys and Pycelle were for. Not that they had found much, but even he had to admit they had found more questions than answers.

“The babe was at Starfall after the war!” Cersei had raved as she paced in her chambers as Jaime had lounged on the bed. “Benjen Stark has never set foot in Dorne! How would he have put a babe in some Dornish belly from the North?”

“Perhaps they had a tryst at Harrenhall,” Jaime had replied carelessly, bored with the conversation but humoring her anyway. “Ashara Dayne was at the Whent’s tourney, if I recall rightly.” Not that _he_ had been there to witness anything, he recalled bitterly. 

“And Benjen Stark has no soulmark!” Cersei had gone on, ignoring his words. “Pycelle says that the only Starks with recorded soulmarks since Rickard are Brandon and Ned.”

“With the war going on and the Dayne girl dying, he probably didn’t see the point of letting the Citadel know,” he had reasoned, but his words once again fell on deaf ears.

“They are hiding something,” she had insisted before narrowing her eyes at Jaime. “Robert is determined to get close to the boy, gods only know why. Make sure you’re guarding him when he does.”

He had rolled his eyes. “Selmy doesn’t really consult me when he assigns our rotations,” he had replied dryly.

She had shot him a charming smile. “You’re resourceful. I’m sure you’ll find a way to please me. You usually do.”

She had played him a fool, he decided, as he steered his horse to ride closer to the Stark boy, who looked uneasy riding next to Robert. Honestly, if the Starks _were_ up to something, he really hoped it didn’t involve this boy attempting to deceive anyone.

Well, considering that _anyone_ was likely to be his family, maybe he _did_ hope it involved just that.

The hunt had just started, but already the king had emptied one wine cask and was halfway into his second.

“Has anyone told you that you look just like your aunt,” Robert remarked breezily, but eyed Stark intensely. Jaime barely resisted a groan. Great, Lyanna bloody Stark was being brought up yet again.

Jon looked unnerved by the question, probably not liking being compared to a woman. “No, your Grace,” he answered, keeping his eyes forward. The Greyjoy boy smirked on Stark’s other side, obviously amused as his unease.

Robert kept his eyes on the boy’s face. If Jaime hadn’t heard the king mocking his brother for lying with another man, he would have thought Robert was lusting after the boy.

“She was my soulmate, you know,” he told him, a sad smile playing on his face as he shook his head and looked away from Stark. “She was my soulmate and I had forgotten what she looked like until I saw you at Winterfell.”

Jaime had seen the drunken oaf’s soulmark and didn’t really see how the man connected a stag crowned with red roses to Lyanna Stark, but he didn’t see the point in contradicting him.

“Is your bonding cuff a true representation of your mark?” Jaime cut in rudely, nodding towards the grey and white direwolves on the boy’s cuff. “It’s rare to have a house sigil for a mark, even more so when _both_ soulmates’ sigil is present.”

It was a point of pride that the sigil of House Lannister was in his own mark, albeit in a very small way. The roaring lion pommel with the sapphire blue eyes seemed only secondary to the long, sharp blade of the sword.

Still, if the boy had two wolves on his wrist, it surely only confirmed that he was who the Starks claimed he was.

“The Targaryens all had dragons in their marks,” Renly pointed out from Robert’s other side. From the smirk on his face, Jaime could tell he mentioned the dragons in order to vex his brother.

“The Targaryens didn’t have soulmates,” Robert snapped angrily. “They didn’t have _souls_ , the bastards,” he spat before draining the second wine cask.

The Stark boy flinched at that, and Jaime really did roll his eyes. The boy wasn’t even a bastard anymore and the word still affected him.

“Prince Rhaegar had a soulmark,” he replied just because he could. The king was drunk enough that his memory of the hunt would be fuzzy, but not so drunk that he would turn violent. Not that Jaime couldn’t take him if he _did_ , but he did swear a vow to protect the brute and people tended to get so touchy when he broke those vows, no matter how justified.

“Then I saved some wench from having to endure his touch.” Robert roared with laughter at his own joke, not noticing how sick the boy next to him looked.

Jaime realized with a jolt that he was probably thinking of his own soulmate, and he felt a pang of unwanted sympathy which he pushed away in disgust. If the idiotic boy had only now realized that his soulmate’s life could be snuffed out like a flame, that really wasn’t Jaime’s problem.

He idly wondered if it was better to have had a soulmate and lose them or to never have one at all. Looking at Stark’s solemn face, he decided not having one was much better. 

Besides, what did he need a soulmate for when he had Cersei?

 

#

 

Robb observed the dwarf swing into his saddle with more ease than he thought the man capable of, and he sighed. He should not have antagonized him. His father wouldn’t have. Not when the small man was headed towards King’s Landing and could pose an additional threat to his bonded.

His heart ached as he thought of Jon, laying a hand on Ghost’s head, needing the white direwolf close. Grey Wind was an extension of himself, and he couldn’t help but think of Ghost as an extension of Jon. If he couldn’t have Jon close, at least he could have his wolf at his side.

“You were right to be harsh with him,” his mother remarked as she appeared at his side. She gave him a small, hopeful smile. Their relationship had been strained ever since Jon had left, and she was obviously hoping to make up for it. “He will have learned that the Starks will not sit idly by and let the Lannisters lord over them.”

“The Imp is going to King’s Landing,” Robb reminded her harshly. “What if he takes this slight out on Father or the girls?” Gods, why did he have to lose his temper at the sight of that thrice-damned lion on the dwarf’s jerkin?

“Or Jon?” Catelyn said knowingly. She shook her head. “Robb, I know you don’t agree that sending him was necessary but—”

“But _nothing_ ,” he growled, turning to glare at her in fury. To his surprise, Ghost left his side to stand between them, making Robb take a step back as the full-length of the direwolf was forced between them. Ghost looked at him with oddly steady red eyes, as if telling Robb to calm down.

He snorted to himself. He really _was_ an extension of Jon.

“Do you have any idea how painful it is to be away from him?” he asked, sagging in defeat. He looked up at his mother with watery eyes. “To _know_ he’s in danger and be able to do nothing about it?” His shoulder wound twinged, as if reminding him he _still_ would be useless in a fight even if he were with Jon. “I know you hate him, mother, but can’t you see that I love him more than anything else in this world?”

“I don’t hate him,” Catelyn told him earnestly, stepping around the white wolf to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder. A guilty look flashed over his face. “Maybe I _did_ hate him, once,” she admitted in a pained voice. “I’ll be the first to admit that I was a petty and vindictive person after I lost your Uncle Brandon. It cost me any chance of your father ever fully loving me, and I may have allowed it to go too far and for too long with my treatment of Jon, but I _don’t_ hate him.”

“Father loves you!” Robb protested, shocked out of his anger by his mother’s heartfelt confession. He had vaguely known that his Uncle Brandon had been his mother’s soulmate, but it had never really been spoken about openly.

She gave him a sad smile. “He cares for me as the mother of his children, but I have no illusions that he is in love with me. He may have fallen for me, in a different life. One where I wasn’t so horrible to him. Not after I made him forsake his own soulmate.”

Robb started at that, knowing his face must have clearly displayed his horror.

“You must think I’m a monster, but soulmates are viewed differently in the South and I did not understand the Northern way until I came here,” Catelyn explained, her eyes begging her son to believe her. “I understand better now.”

“Then why send Jon away?” he asked in accusation.

“Because he’s the only one I could _trust_ ,” she told him fervently. “Your father needed to know what had happened, and it needed to come from family. With you injured and me taking care of Bran and Rickon, who else _could_ have gone?”

He scowled and looked away, not wanting to accept her reasoning but not able to argue against it. “You don’t understand how dangerous King’s Landing is.”

“It’s no more dangerous for Jon than it is for Arya or Sansa,” Catelyn replied with a touch of exasperation in her tone. “I think your bonded is more capable of defending himself than they are.”

She was wrong, Robb knew. King’s Landing was _much more_ dangerous to Jon than it was to anyone else.

tbc…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, Margaery and Brienne FINALLY arrive in King's Landing, I PROMISE!
> 
> Also, more amazing artwork from dreamsweep!  
> Margaery's soulmark: http://i68.tinypic.com/2qvh381.jpg  
> Ned's soulmark: http://i68.tinypic.com/14trc4z.jpg  
> Cat's soulmark: http://i65.tinypic.com/xfafso.jpg  
> NEW! Jon/Robb's soulmark: http://i66.tinypic.com/2w73c0n.jpg


	9. Chapter Nine

Margaery’s filly trotted next to Garlan’s palfrey as they entered King’s Landing through the Mud Gate. Her mother and grandmother were riding at the back of their caravan in the wheelhouse, but she had insisted on riding into the city ahorse.

If her soulmate had come to King’s Landing with the new Hand, she didn’t want the first time they saw her to be her clambering out of some cramped wheelhouse.

“Well, sister, is the city to your liking?” Garlan asked cheerfully.

“It’s not Highgarden, but I suppose it will do,” she answered with a smile, gazing about the streets with wonder in her eyes as they made their way up the Hook. She loved the beauty of Highgarden and the Reach, but she supposed King’s Landing had its own sort of charm.

They rode into the Red Keep behind their father and came to a halt in the inner courtyard. She could see many members of the king’s court gathered around to gaze at the newcomers with curiosity. Her eyes were caught, though, by a small group of onlookers that hung back near the entrance of the nearest tower.

The only man in the group was handsome, older than her but probably younger than Loras, and the oldest of the two girls was undeniably lovely, with clear, pale skin and flowing hair that was a shade of auburn that Margaery couldn’t help but envy. The younger girl was oddly dressed in rough breeches and doublet, but none of them was what had caught Margaery’s attention.

At their sides were two monstrously huge wolves. The lighter grey one sat tamely between the man and the oldest girl, while the darker one stood and watched the newcomers intently.

She tore her eyes away from them to focus on her father, who was now greeting a tall man solemn man dressed plainly in a leather jerkin, with a short dark grey cloak hanging from his shoulders. Though he had a lordly bearing, there was nothing about him that would have signified his importance except for the silver hand pinned to the clasp of his cloak.

Her father swung off his horse to greet Lord Stark, and Margaery could not have imagined two men looking more dissimilar. Though her father was only slightly shorter than the Hand, his waist size somehow made him look shorter, particularly in his vibrant green and gold doublet and burnt gold cloak. It was a good thing he had decided against wearing his armor into the city. His helm, with its large plume, would have been especially jarring next to Lord Stark’s solemn garb.

Despite their obvious differences, the two lords greeted each other warmly. Though Lord Stark’s face had features that seemed solemn, she found that his smile made it much more handsome.

She was distracted from observing Lord Stark by Lord Renly approaching her horse and holding out a hand to gallantly help her dismount. She smiled at his attentions and greeted him with a kiss on the cheek.

“My dear sister, you look more lovely every time I see you,” her brother’s bonded declared.

“And you are as charming as ever, my lord,” she replied with a smile.

“Now, sister, do not steal my bonded from me,” Loras teased as he moved from greeting Garlan to link his arm with hers.

“Loras never was very good at sharing,” she confided to Renly mischievously. “I hope it doesn’t tax you, my lord.”

“Never,” Renly declared, eyes shifting to Loras and taking on a soft look. He shook himself from his daze and led her over to her father, who had just finished introducing Garlan to the Hand.

“Lord Stark,” Renly said. “May I introduce my good sister to you, Lady Margaery Tyrell of Highgarden.”

“My lady,” the Hand greeted graciously before turning to her father. “I must apologize for the king not greeting you. He’s away on a hunt. The queen also sends her apologies to your lady wife and lady mother. She is currently indisposed.”

Mace waved away his apologies. “We’ve come to honor the Hand,” he replied good-naturedly. “It’s only fitting that the Hand himself greets us.”

“And Lord Stark is very fit to be honored,” Renly stated with magnanimous smile.

The Hand smiled in thanks, but it did not reach his eyes, which looked at them with cold suspicion. They would not win him with flowery words, Margaery discerned at once. Seeing that her father and Renly had not realized their flattery would get them nowhere, she spoke up, far too invested in ingratiating herself with the Starks to play the meek and quiet lady.

“Lord Stark, I do hope you brought your daughters with you,” she said, smiling at him sweetly. “None of my cousins were able to travel with us, and I have no companions in King’s Landing save my brothers.”

His smile turned more genuine at her inquiry, causing happy satisfaction to bloom inside her. He turned his head and beckoned to someone. The Tyrells turned, and Margaery had to bite back a laugh as her father visibly started at the large wolves that approached them with the trio she had noted earlier. Garlan eyed them warily, but Loras and Renly did not seem to find them unusual. Apparently the beasts had become common sights at the king’s court.

Margaery, for her part, was fascinated, particularly since the lighter grey wolf looked eerily similar to the wolf in her soulmark.

_They must be direwolves_ , she realized in awe.

“My lady, my lords, might I present my daughters, Sansa and Arya,” Lord Stark shot the younger girl a sharp look at her attire. She ducked her head in apology, but Margaery and her family had enough tact to not comment on her less than ladylike apparel. “And my good son and nephew, Jon Stark,” the Hand continued, gesturing towards the handsome man between the two girls.

Margaery eyed him with interest, wondering if he could be the one who matched her mark. She was disappointed, then, to spy the bonding cuff on his wrist. Disappointed and a bit confused. 

She did not think bonding cuffs were common in the North, having originated in the South with married lords and ladies who wished to honor their bonded even while keeping them out of sight. They were rarely needed in the North, she knew, as bonded pairs were nearly always married to each other, unless they were of the same sex, and then their bonded was always a prominent figure of their household.

So why was Jon Stark wearing one?

She internally shrugged the thought away. It mattered not to her. All it meant was that this man was definitely not her soulmate.

Margaery’s eyes then fell on Sansa Stark and immediately liked the girl her father had suggested she befriend. Sansa, she saw, was even more lovely up-close, but she was happy to see that Sansa wore her beauty well, with a shy yet eager smile and no hint of arrogance in her clear blue eyes.

Their eyes met, and Margaery’s smile turned into a grin, which Sansa met with a hopeful smile of her own. Yes, she was sure they were going to get along splendidly.

“Gods be good, are those _direwolves_?” came her grandmother’s voice. “Lord Stark, you are taking your house sigil far too seriously!”

“Lady Olenna, it is good to see you in good health,” the Hand replied graciously, greeting both her grandmother and mother. 

“With those things about, I doubt I’ll stay in good health,” Olenna declared. “I’m surprised half the Keep hasn’t died of fright.”

“The king’s court has learned that my daughters’ wolves are harmless enough to those who mean my girls no harm,” Lord Stark remarked, a quiet pride in his countenance.

“Your _daughters’_ wolves?” Margaery asked in interest, eyebrows shooting up as she glanced back at Sansa in askance.

The other girl smiled at her and nodded. “Lady is mine,” she informed in a soft, polite voice, placing a hand on the light grey wolf. “Nymeria is Arya’s.”

“Jon has one, too,” Arya volunteered eagerly. “But he left him at Winterfell since he will only be here until the tourney.”

“Are you planning to participate, my lord?” Garlan asked Jon with a jovial grin. He nudged Loras. “Perhaps you mean to give my brother here some competition in the tilt.”

“I’m afraid not, Ser,” he answered with a small shake of his head. “The king has requested that I squire for him during the tourney, so I expect most of my time will be dedicated to His Grace’s service.”

“A great honor!” her father proclaimed.

“Yes, well, I’m sure you and your household are tired from your journey,” Lord Stark said, steering the conversation away from his nephew, which struck Margaery as strange. “I am sure Lord Renly will be more than happy to show you to the accommodations the king has set aside for you in the Maidenvault.”

Margaery daringly caught Sansa’s hand with both of her own before she was led away by Renly. The other girl looked surprised by the gesture, but also pleased.

“We shall be great friends, I think, Sansa,” she predicted with a genuine smile of delight.

“I should like that very much,” she replied shyly.

Margaery grinned back at her as Loras caught her arm once more.

Sansa Stark was exactly the type of friend Margaery wanted, she decided. Pure, sweet, and lovely, she was fairly certain she would be a loyal friend.

And Margaery was going to make sure that she repaid that loyalty in kind, no matter what her family might plan.

 

#

 

“Someone told me I might find you here,” Jaime drawled as he approached the tournament register. Tyrion looked up from where he was laughing over a horn of ale with the squires that had been pressed into service to take the names of all the competitors. “You might have let your family know that you had made it back from the Wall safely.”

Tyrion grinned up at him. “Why, Jaime, it’s almost as if you _care_ ,” he replied with a smirk. “As it happens, though, I _was_ informing family that I had returned. Isn’t that right, Lancel?”

Jaime looked more closely at the boy nearest his brother, startled to realize that it was indeed his uncle’s son. When had the boy grown into a man? Jaime gave him a considering look. Well, perhaps not a man, but something near enough.

“Cousin Lancel,” he greeted cordially. “I was not aware you had come to court.”

“Her Grace requested I come,” the boy answered, a bit of hero worship in his eyes. “Tyrek as well. To squire for the king.”

Jaime’s eyes slid to the boy next to him, with his straight black hair and his unassuming demeanor. “This is certainly not Cousin Tyrek,” he remarked in amusement.

The unknown squire’s eyes widened as they darted up from his hands to look at Jaime, only to shoot back down again.

“This is Podrick Payne,” Lancel said, eager to have Jaime’s attention on him once more. “He’s Ser Cedric Payne’s squire. Tyrek is with the king, along with Jon Stark.” His cousin spat the name as if a curse.

“Lancel here was telling me how Jon Stark has usurped many of the duties he and Tyrek were meant to share,” Tyrion spoke up, giving Jaime a meaningful look. “It seems the king favors his Stark squire over his Lannister ones.”

“Even though we’ve been with him longer!” Lancel put in with a sullen look. “Stark only just took up his duties with the king _today_ , but it is _me_ King Robert sends off to man the register before the tourney begins tomorrow!”

Considering his cousin’s whining, Jaime couldn’t much blame the king for wanting to be rid of Lancel. “I’m sure you’ll get your moment to ingratiate yourself to the king.” _Or the queen, more likely_. Jaime couldn’t help but wonder why exactly Cersei wanted their cousins under Robert’s nose. It wasn’t like the man had any secrets they might ferret out. Robert was a lot of things, but taciturn was not one of them.

Before Lancel could whine some more, a tall knight with a mop of blond hair approached the register. He was unfamiliar, though from the look of him, he was certainly formidable. Slightly taller than he himself, the knight wore armor the color of burnished bronze over a blue gambeson. On closer inspection, though, Jaime saw that his stance was too awkward, as if uncomfortable within his own body and with the people around him.

No matter how good he was at fighting, Jaime decided, he would never win if he couldn’t even _stand_ without feeling out of place.

“I would like to register for the melee,” the knight said, addressing Podrick in a polished, deep, and undeniably _female_ voice.

“Ser, my lady,” the squire stammered, looking hopelessly lost. “I don’t think… I mean, you aren’t… that is to say…”

She frowned at him, the frown making her freckled, broad face even more uncomely. She reached into the small pouch on her hip and dropped five gold dragons onto the table. “My entrance fee.”

Podrick blinked down at the coins as if he didn’t know what to make of them. He looked up at the woman for a second before quickly averting his eyes, as if afraid of being caught staring.

“A woman cannot compete,” Lancel stepped in, disdain in his voice.

“There are no rules that a woman cannot compete,” she replied coolly. Jaime had to admire her nerve. 

“This is a tourney in honor of the Hand of the King!” his cousin argued in outrage that was far too genuine in Jaime’s opinion. It was almost sickening in its sincerity. “How would it honor the Hand to have a woman beaten bloody in the melee?”

“I am sure my sword would honor the Hand greatly when I _win_ the melee,” she declared, blue eyes glaring at Lancel. Jaime couldn’t help but note that her eyes shone like sapphires and were probably the only thing about her which would be called beautiful.

“Women do not fight in tourneys,” Lancel insisted, standing as if to intimidate her. She stood a head taller than him, though, and it only served to stoke Jaime’s amusement.

“Oh, let her compete,” he drawled. He shot her a smirk. “I’m sure it’ll make things interesting. She can’t distract her opponents more with her tits than Thoros does with that bloody flaming sword of his.

She colored at that. “You mock me, Ser?”

Jaime rolled his eyes. “I mock _Thoros_ , unless stating the fact that you do, in fact, have tits is a mockery. Are they that small?”

“That was mockery,” Tyrion pointed out helpfully.

“Thank you, brother,” he said before addressing the woman. “In case you didn’t notice, I am allowing you to compete in the Hand’s tourney. If anyone says anything against you, tell them to take it up with Ser Jaime Lannister. Now say thank you, give Pod your name, and go enjoy King’s Landing.”

Her neck and ears were dark red, contrasting unpleasantly with her face, which was white with anger, freckles more pronounced than ever. He could see her struggling to find her words and he waited patiently with an expectant smile.

“I thank you, Ser,” she ground out eventually, the words obviously painful for her to say. “Brienne of Tarth,” she barked at Podrick before turning on her heels and walking away.

“What a hideous creature,” Lancel spat as soon as she was gone.

“Beauty is only skin deep,” Tyrion remarked with a smirk. “I should know. I grew up with the most beautiful woman in Westeros.”

If Cersei had heard the comment, Jaime would have been quick to defend her, mostly knowing that she would be insufferable if he didn’t. He had long since trying to curb Tyrion’s tongue outside of her presence, though. 

It was tough, at times, to be loyal to two siblings so hell-bent on hating each other.

“We may be able to see what’s beneath Brienne of Tarth’s skin if things go poorly for her in the melee,” Jaime quipped. “Beautiful or ugly, man or woman, everyone bleeds the same.”

 

#

 

Sansa frowned at the familiar clacking of wooden swords and stalked into the Small Hall in annoyance. She paused uncertainly near the entrance when she realized it was just Arya and Gendry practicing, with no sign of Jon. Before she could decide whether to still say something or not, Gendry noticed her and paused mid-thrust. Luckily for him, Arya realized something had disrupted them and didn’t strike him while he was distracted.

“M’lady,” he said, dunking his head and not meeting her eyes.

He never met her eyes, Sansa had noticed. He wasn’t comfortable around her. He was supposed to be her _soulmate_ , but he wasn’t even bothering to get to know her! Why didn’t he like her? She was pretty enough, wasn’t she? Septa Mordane told her vanity was a sin, but had always assured her that she was beautiful. Maybe a baseborn armorer’s apprentice wouldn’t have been her first choice in a soulmate, but he was handsome and kind, which was a great deal better than handsome and cruel like Joffrey, and she believed they could get along well enough.

If only he would _try_.

“What do you want?” Arya asked her sullenly. 

Sansa’s frown increased. Arya had been grumpier lately, ever since she began taking lessons with Jon, and the tentative friendship that had begun between the two sisters had deteriorated. As much as she hated to admit it, Sansa was sad to see it go.

“Lady Margaery is joining me for tea, and you can hear the sound of your practice from the family solar,” she explained, trying to keep her sadness out of her voice. She smiled as Lady bumped her hand with her nose. There was no room for sadness today. She had made a new friend. Who cares if her soulmate and sister both hated her?

Arya perked up at that and seemed to fight a battle in her mind before she asked in a queer voice, “Can I come?”

Sansa gave her a suspicious look. “Why?”

“Because I want to get to know Lady Margaery, too!” she explained defensively.

Leery of the idea of Arya being at tea with them but knowing that Father would be angry if she were to just tell her _no_ , she looked at Arya’s clothes. “You’ll have to change into something more appropriate,” she told her. “A _dress_.”

“I have dresses! I’ll go change now!” she cried, darting past Sansa and leaving her alone with Gendry.

They both stood in awkward silence for a moment before Gendry gathered his and Arya’s practice swords and gave her a slight bow. “M’lady.”

With that, he was gone.

She wanted to cry in frustration. What was wrong with her? He got along well enough with Jon and Arya, so it couldn’t be her birth. Was she not kind enough? She had been as courteous and polite as she could.

What more could she do?

tbc…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally got the meetings I know you've all been waiting for! Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Also, dreamsweep has gathered all the artwork for the soulmarks here, which should be easier for people to see: http://imgur.com/a/PwOQH. A HUGE thank you for the hardwork that went into these drawings because I could NEVER have made them look half as good, haha.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not completely satisfied with this chapter, but I hope you enjoy it!

It was very clear to Margaery that Sansa had never played hostess to an equal before and that she was nervous about the tea going well. She fidgeted in her seat as she glanced at her constantly, with a hopeful gleam in her eye as she tried to gage whether Margaery was enjoying herself.

She needn’t have worried. Margaery was quite satisfied being a guest of Sansa Stark. Though younger than Margaery, Sansa was already taller, which her high-waisted dove grey gown only highlighted. Despite her nerves, the young wolf maid was poised and gracious, and her compliments were refreshingly sincere. She was quick to keep the conversation at the table flowing, though the other attendees were less than helpful in that aspect.

Jeyne Poole was a pleasant enough girl, she supposed, but was awfully quiet in Margaery’s presence. Considering the girl had been Sansa’s companion for so long, Margaery hoped that she would grow comfortable enough around her in subsequent visits to come out of her shell. Though Sansa seemed as eager to be Margaery’s friend as she was hers, Margaery wasn’t quite sure she would forsake a girl who had likely been a long-time friend in order to spend time with her.

Margaery wasn’t worried, though. It was just a matter of being as friendly and approachable as possible to the girl. Surely she’d be able to win her over.

It was Sansa’s sister, though, that she couldn’t quite get a handle on.

Arya Stark was dressed in a gown today. Though the dark blue fabric made her grey eyes sparkle and her hair braided back framed her narrow face and displayed her features in a pleasing way, she looked far less comfortable than she had when Margaery had first seen her in her breeches and doublet. She had yet to say more than a soft greeting, sitting stiffly at her sister’s side, with her wolf, Nymeria, restless beside her, flicking her tail anxiously and standing to pace every once in a while.

“The flowers really are lovely,” Sansa complimented once more as she ran short of topics, referring to the potted flower shrub Margaery had brought as a hostess gift. “Are they roses?”

“No,” she answered with a slight pout. She had wanted to give Sansa a rose shrub. It had seemed fitting to gift her new wolf friend with roses, as the sigil of her house, but her grandmother had advised against it because of the climate of King’s Landing. “Our rose bushes can be a bit finicky to grow in the Crownlands. These are begonias. We call them bright roses, though, because they grow like crazy at Brightwater Keep.”

“I’ve never seen a pink this deep and bright before,” Sansa said in wonderment. “It’s like a happier red.”

Margaery laughed at that. “I never knew red wasn’t happy.”

The auburn-haired girl flushed, but it was her sister who answered. “Nothing good is ever red,” she stated as if it were an absolute truth, though Margaery couldn’t help but think that she was trying to cover Sansa’s slip. “Blood, fire, anger, they’re all red. And tomatoes,” she added as an afterthought, grimacing at the thought of the offensive vegetable.

“There are some things that are red and good,” she pointed out with a mischievous smile, deciding not to press at Sansa’s dislike of the color. “Apples, roses, rubies, your sister’s hair.” Margaery was pleased at the pretty blush that dusted Sansa’s cheeks at that, which was also red, as it so happened.

“Sansa has always had the prettiest hair,” Jeyne agreed shyly.

Sansa picked at a strand of her hair with a considering frown. “It’s kind of you both to say, but I wish it had the curl Robb’s hair has. It’s so straight. Not like your hair, Lady Margaery. Your curls are lovely.”

Margaery smiled. “Let’s just say we both have lovely hair. And it’s just Margaery, please. We are friends now. There is no need for titles.” Sansa looked thrilled at the remark. “Robb is your oldest brother, yes?”

She nodded. “He and Jon are recently bonded. I’ve never seen either of them so happy,” she said with a longing sigh.

A part of Margaery was dying to ask about Jon Stark and the reasons behind him being concealed as a bastard, but she felt it was a bit too familiar of a question. “It must be painful for them to be apart,” she said instead. “Loras is always insufferable whenever he is separated from Renly.”

Arya bristled at that, and Nymeria jumped to her feet, haunches raised. “Jon isn’t _insufferable_ ,” she said with narrowed eyes. Even Sansa frowned at the word, not happy at all with the perceived slight to her cousin.

Margaery quickly clarified. “I only meant that he must be sad to be away from his bonded. Loras’s misery always translates to ill-temper. I did not mean to imply that Lord Jon’s did as well.”

Sansa nodded at that as she took on a thoughtful countenance. “Jon was sad a lot before Robb’s soulmark came in,” she mused. “But he was never ill-tempered. He always tried to make those around him as happy as he could despite his own sorrow.”

She couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the dark, handsome lord she had only met once. “Why was he so sad?”

“Because he thought he would have to leave Winterfell,” Arya answered with a scowl as her thin fingers picked apart a muffin on her plate. “He was set to take the black the day after Robb’s mark came in. He told me that it was the only place he could really belong.”

Margaery was suitably horrified at that. Though she had long resigned to the eventuality of leaving her childhood home at Highgarden in favor of marriage, she couldn’t imagine how agonizing it would be to feel as if she didn’t belong anywhere and had to go live in exile with the other undesirables of the realm.

Sansa furrowed her brow. “Jon always had a place at Winterfell,” she argued. “Neither Father nor Robb would have ever forced him to leave.”

“Mother would have,” Arya shot back. “She never liked Jon. That’s why she sent him here to tell Father about Bran instead of just sending a raven.”

Her sister’s eyes widened as Margaery wondered who Bran was and what had Lord Stark been told about him. “Hush, Arya,” Sansa rebuked sharply.

Margaery expected the younger girl to argue, but she deflated instead with a shamed look, obviously remembering they had company.

“It’s a good thing your brother’s mark came in, then,” Margaery remarked, glossing over the sisters’ argument. She gave a wistful smile, thinking of her own mark. “I cannot wait to find my soulmate.”

“Sansa has found hers,” Jeyne chimed in, giving her friend a proud look. For some reason, Margaery felt as if she had just drunk sour milk, but couldn’t help but notice that both Stark girls suddenly looked uneasy.

“Sansa doesn’t _know_ Gendry is her soulmate,” Arya pointed out. “He just _might_ be.”

“What do you mean?” Margaery asked, unable to keep her curiosity at bay.

“Gendry has a direwolf in his soulmark,” Sansa answered uncomfortably. “That means his soulmate is probably a Stark.”

“And your other siblings?” she inquired, delighted at the turn of the conversation that allowed her to mine for more information, but still not liking the idea of this Gendry person. He felt like competition, even if that was a ridiculous notion. Whoever his soulmate was, they wouldn’t be _her_ soulmate.

“Gendry is seventeen and a man grown. All my siblings but Robb are too young for him, and Robb has Jon,” Sansa replied, seeming to pull herself together and giving a small smile.

Margaery frowned at that. She herself was sixteen. Did that mean that the other Stark siblings were too young for her also? She glanced at Arya, who was scowling into her tea. She knew the other Stark siblings were young boys, and Margaery didn’t think she would like being bound to a boy so young. Girls matured faster. Growing up around her male cousins had taught her that.

No, she decided, if her soulmate was a Stark, she would much rather they be one of the two girls in this room.

Margaery had not really considered having a female soulmate before, but she found that it was an idea she could get used to. She looked between Sansa and Arya in consideration. She had felt an instant connection to her older girl, but she couldn’t disregard the younger either. Not when she wasn’t sure.

“Five or six years between a man and his wife isn’t so very unusual,” she commented. “He could be Arya’s soulmate just as easily as yours.”

The younger Stark’s head snapped up, a hopeful gleam in her eye before she frowned. “But then Sansa’d have to marry Joffrey.”

Her brow went up in surprise at that as she looked between the other girls. Arya’s eyes had widened, as if she knew she had said something she shouldn’t have. Jeyne was biting her lip and looked horrified. Sansa’s despondent face, though, broke her heart. She looked as if Margaery had crushed all her dreams.

“You don’t want to marry the prince?” she asked, more because it was an expected question than because of genuine curiosity. 

“He’s not my soulmate,” Sansa answered in a small voice, eyes fixed on her lap. She smiled a bit as her direwolf padded over to her and rested her large head on her lap. With a hand buried in the soft gray fur of her wolf, she looked up at Margaery with a daring glint in her bright blue eyes. “I am of the North, where we are true to our soulmates.”

If Sansa thought Margaery, as a southron lady, would take offense, she couldn’t have been more wrong. Instead, Margaery beamed at her words. “I believe you Northerners have the right idea there. A soulmark is a gift from the gods to lead us to our other half. The gods are never wrong.”

Sansa flushed at the praise and gave her a shy smile. Jeyne looked at Margaery in wonder, while Arya was once again frowning into her tea.

She smiled serenely as she took a bite of lemon cake. That had made a good impression, she thought, pleased at herself. She wanted these girls to accept her, and she believed she was halfway there.

Not bad for their first tea together.

 

#

 

“So who does the fucking in your relationship, you or Loras?” the king asked with a bawdy laugh as he held his goblet out for more wine. Jon didn’t hesitate to refill it, knowing it was not his place to tell the king that he had had enough. “Please at least tell me that you’re man enough to not spread your legs for that pansy.”

Lord Renly looked less than pleased at the question. “Loras and I are bonded soulmates. Whatever pleasure we find in each other’s bodies is blessed by the gods. Unlike what you do with your whores,” he added in disdain.

“If what I do with whores isn’t blessed by the gods, it certainly _feels_ like it is,” Robert responded, good-natured in his drunkenness today at least. Even though he had only been squiring for the king for about half a week, Jon had learned that there were three types of drunk Robert Baratheon: happy drunk, melancholy drunk, and violent drunk.

Jon had only seen a glimpse of a violently drunk Robert, but it had frightened him to the core. One of his whores had had the bad sense to mention Rhaegar Targaryen, and the king had a tight grip around her throat and was squeezing before Jon even registered what was happening.

He had thankfully come to his senses just before he strangled the poor girl to death, but what had really unnerved Jon was the way that everyone, the king, Ser Boros, who had been on duty, and all the whores had just pretended it didn’t happen.

Because the king could do what he wanted and didn’t have to apologize to anyone.

“Perhaps I should hire a boy-whore to see what the appeal is,” the king continued to needle his brother. “If the boy is pretty enough, it can’t be that different from taking a wench from the back.”

Renly narrowed his eyes at him. “The _appeal_ is lying with a person you love,” he retorted. “It’s a pity you haven’t experienced such a thing.”

Jon tensed at that but relaxed when sorrow clouded Robert’s face and not anger.

“Because that bastard Rhaegar Targaryen stole the one woman I’ve ever loved,” he growled, putting Jon on edge once more. Anytime Targaryens were brought up, the king was unpredictable. “My _soulmate_.”

“Lyanna Stark wasn’t your soulmate,” Renly said in exasperation. “You barely knew her, and I have it on good authority that her soulmark did not match yours.”

“She died before she could get a soulmark,” the king snapped, glaring at his brother as he gripped his wine goblet so tight that Jon was sure the gems must be cutting his hand. “That bloody Targaryen killed her.”

_No_ , Jon thought as a sudden realization hit him. _I killed her_.

“Her soulmark came in before she died and some maester reported it to the Citadel,” Renly informed him in a smug, matter-of-fact tone, speaking to the king in a careless way that only a brother could hope to get away with. “The Archmaester of Soulbonds told me that it wasn’t added to the copy in King’s Landing because she had died so soon after and they did not see the point.”

Jon’s blood froze in his veins. Gods, the Citadel knew that that Rhaegar and Lyanna were soulmates. They _had_ to if they knew Lyanna’s mark, right? Could they guess about Jon?

And if they could, who _else_ had enough information to do the same?

“I know the truth no matter what those bloody book-lovers say. And just what in seven hells are you doing talking to archmaesters about my Lyanna?” the king asked sulkily. 

“Why, dear brother, I only want to see you happy,” the Stormlord remarked in feigned innocence. “Mourning over a dead girl when your soulmate could still be out there does not make you happy.”

Robert rolled his eyes. “My happiness,” he scoffed before draining his goblet. “Why does everyone want me happy but seem to do their best to make me unhappy?”

Now that the conversation had shifted away from his mother, Jon couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the king. From his father’s stories, he knew that Robert Baratheon had been a great warrior and had led the Rebellion to victory on the Trident. All the songs told of a strong and charming man, handsome and loved by all, fighting his way through the Seven Kingdoms and freeing them from a mad king’s tyranny.

How had such a man turned into this broken king before him? Did all kings either become mad or broken?

As much as he feared what Robert Baratheon could do to him, he couldn’t help but pity him a bit as well, exceedingly glad that such a heavy crown would never pass to him, well aware that if events had played out differently, it _could_ have.

“Well, there are worse fates than being unhappy, your grace,” Renly pointed out with a teasing smile. “You could have your chest caved in by a warhammer.”

The king barked a laugh at that. “Gods, that was a good day,” he reminisced fondly. “The satisfying crunch of armor and bone beneath my hammer, those ridiculous rubies popping off everywhere like drops of blood. I kill that man every night in my dreams. _That_ is what makes me happy, brother.”

Listening to the man wax poetically about killing his father, Jon felt sick at the sliver of pity he had felt for him before. He wondered if the king would feel as much pleasure in killing him as he had in killing Rhaegar?

He kept his face smoothly impassive as Robert thrust his goblet out for yet another refill. The tournament would be over in less than two weeks. Less than two weeks before he could begin the journey back to Winterfell. Back to _Robb._

He just had to keep his head down and not cause suspicion until then.

tbc…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I finally caved and got a tumblr to post updates about where I am in my writing processes for those of you who are curious. It can be found at blackrose2014-got.tumblr.com.
> 
> Also, once again, dreamsweep, who is fabulous and has kindly dedicated her artistic talents to drawing the soulmarks in this story, has posted another drawing, this time of Jaime/Brienne's mark. It and all her illustrations can be found at http://imgur.com/a/PwOQH.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not super thrilled with how this one turned out, but hope you enjoy it!

Margaery hummed a bit to herself as she made her way to the solar in the wing her family had been given in the Maidenvault. Tea with the Stark ladies had gone exceptionally well, and she had been invited to sit with the Hand’s family tomorrow during the first day of the tourney.

“—hiding a royal heir as a bastard,” she heard her mother’s voice say as she neared, pausing near the door with a frown. “It was a dangerous gamble.”

Curiosity made her stay hidden just outside of the door. Her grandmother always taught her that information was the better than gold, and when the opportunity to gather it presented itself, it was always best to do so, even if you weren’t sure how the information would be useful.

“But one that has the potential to pay out well for us,” her father answered. Margaery could hear the cheer in his voice. Whatever this was about, Lord Tyrell was obviously very pleased about it.

Alerie snorted. “If Lord Renly’s schemes actually work. Loras may have confidence in his bonded, but I have decidedly less.”

“It will work, my dear. Lord Renly assured me that his brother supported his plans entirely. With the two of them working together, I would not wager against them.”

Her mother then asked if Loras was prepared for the start of the joust tomorrow, and the conversation devolved into a discussion of the upcoming festivities. Realizing that nothing more was to be said about whatever schemes her parents had become involved in, she entered the room and announced her presence with pleasant smile.

Whatever it was they were scheming, she was sure that she would find out soon enough. If nothing else, her grandmother would surely tell her.

 

#

 

Jon had been relieved of squiring duties for the first day of the tournament, had truthfully wanted nothing more than to avoid the festivities while he could. His father, he knew, was far from happy about a tourney being held in his honor, especially considering the extravagant costs being incurred by the crown. He was sure that if Jon hadn’t been in King’s Landing and endangering them all, Ned would have avoided the tourney as much as he could get away with.

But Jon _was_ there, and he had put his family in a very precarious situation. Which was why his father had insisted that the entire family attend the first day of the tournament together.

Arya was scowling next to him in her seat. Lady Margaery was on the other side of her and chatting with Sansa, so she had yet to notice his youngest sister’s mood, but Jon was sure Arya would be upset if she made a bad impression on the Tyrell girl. Gendry had told him that his sister had even _volunteered_ to wear a dress yesterday in order to have tea with the older girl. For whatever reason, Arya had decided she wanted to be Margaery’s friend, and Jon wasn’t going to let her be disappointed because she something had put her in a foul mood.

He leaned over to ask her in a low voice, “What’s wrong, sister?”

“Gendry should be allowed to sit with us,” she replied after a moment, eyes darting towards the stands erected for the smallfolk, where Gendry was standing with a few other Stark men as they waited for the tourney to begin. 

Jon frowned as he examined the other man. He did indeed look a bit out of place with the other men. Jon knew that Gendry hadn’t really spent much time with any of his father’s men, mostly because Arya insisted on monopolizing his time with practice whenever Jon wasn’t given them lessons in swordsmanship.

Gendry was a taciturn sort, but Jon was sure he would eventually ease his way into a comfortable camaraderie with the rest of the men. It would no doubt help that Gendry was baseborn. The men would be more willing to accept him. But he had to actually spend time with them for that to happen.

“It’s good that he spends time with the men,” he told Arya as much. “If he is Sansa’s soulmate, he will need to gain their respect.”

Her scowl only deepened at that though. “What if…” she began in a voice so soft that Jon could barely hear her. She bit her lip uncertainly and looked away. “What if he isn’t _Sansa’s_ soulmate?”

Jon sighed, knowing exactly what his sister meant. It would be difficult to miss how attached Arya had become to the former blacksmith apprentice, and even he had to admit that Gendry certainly was far more comfortable with Arya than he was with Sansa, though that might be because of the expectations that underlay the interactions between him and the older Stark sister. 

Personally, he wasn’t thrilled at the idea of Arya having more than friendly feelings for a man so much older than she was. To be honest, he wouldn’t be happy with her having those types of feelings for _anyone_ really. She was his baby sister. He wasn’t prepared to give her up to another man anytime soon.

Still, he knew that he was only one she was likely to speak to about this, so he couldn’t let his own feelings get in the way.

“You mean, what if he’s _yours_?” he said gently.

“Does that make me a terrible person?” she whispered in a fearful voice. “Sansa _needs_ a soulmate so bad so that she doesn’t have to marry Joffrey. It’s selfish for me to want him for myself.”

Jon wrapped an arm around her shoulders, dismayed to see tears shining in her eyes. He had never seen Arya this upset about anything. This was really bothering her. “It’s not selfish, and you are _not_ a terrible person,” he told her emphatically. She turned in her seat to bury her face in Jon’s jerkin, and he was glad that the jousters were parading around the lists and attracting the crowd’s attention. Margaery Tyrell’s eyes glanced towards them in concern, but she tactfully looked away at Jon’s nod.

“But…”

“No buts,” he stated firmly. “You can’t control how you feel. And I am certain that if Sansa’s soulmark comes in and _does_ match Gendry, you will be happy for them both. Because your own soulmate will still be out there waiting for you.”

“What if I don’t get a mark?” Arya asked, sounding so sad that Jon’s heart ached for her. “What if I end up all alone?”

“Hey,” he said, pulling away so that he could look her in the eye. “You’ll never be alone. Never. You’ll always have me. And Robb. And you can live out the rest of your life with us at Winterfell. Well, when you’re not out exploring the world like the curious little thing that you are,” he added with a teasing smile.

She brightened a bit at that. “Really?”

“Of course.”

It felt strange to Jon that _he_ was in a position to offer _her_ a permanent place at Winterfell. It had barely had time to sink into Jon that _he_ would be able to live out the rest of his days with Robb at Winterfell. Actually, having Arya stay at Winterfell with them would be the only thing that would make the life waiting for him even more perfect.

If they ever actually got back to Winterfell, that is.

“My ladies,” Jon heard an overly-gracious voice greet from Sansa’s other side. He looked up with a frown, misliking the solicitous tone. His eyes met those of Petyr Baelish, who gave him a smile that seemed to mock him. “My lord,” he added, as if noticing Jon for the first time.

“Lord Baelish,” he acknowledged him politely, though he was far from pleased when the Master of Coin slid into the open seat next to Jeyne. He spared a glance to where his father was seated at the king’s side, but he was engrossed in conversation with Robert and hadn’t noticed Littlefinger’s appearance.

The older man was seated too far from him to hear what he was telling the girls over the din of the crowd. Though he did not know what Lord Baelish was leaning over Jeyne to tell Sansa and Lady Margaery, his smile was a little too friendly, eyes a little too sharp, for him to trust him.

Jon considered his options. Anything he did or said in order to get rid of Lord Baelish would undoubtedly draw attention to himself, something he wanted to avoid. But he definitely did not like the way the man was gazing at his sister.

Lady Margaery spoke up, though, before he could decide what to do. “I am sure Lord Stark will be grateful to learn that you find his wife and daughter’s beauty so becoming, Lord Baelish,” he heard her say and it was all Jon could do to keep from smirking as Littlefinger’s open smile faltered a bit.

“Oh, I agree, my lady,” Jon spoke up, loud enough for Lord Baelish to hear him. “I will be sure to pass on your compliments, Lord Baelish.”

His smile fell entirely at that. Jon knew that there was no love lost between Littlefinger and his father. He had been in King’s Landing long enough to hear the rumors about how Baelish had tried to duel for the hand of Lady Stark and had lost spectacularly. Jon was sure that alone was enough to sour any relationship between the two, but it seemed as if Lord Stark’s dislike of Littlefinger had only grown since he had gotten to King’s Landing.

He was sure there was something that his father was keeping from them, but Jon trusted that if they needed to know, Lord Stark would tell them.

Thankfully, his words were enough to drive Baelish away. Jon caught Margaery’s eyes and gave her a grateful smile. She winked at him before turning her attention back to Sansa.

She was a sly one, he decided as the first two jousters took their positions. Jon was glad that she seemed to be keen on being friends with the girls. Sansa especially could use an ally in King’s Landing that could hold her own among the snakes.

 

#

 

Brienne leaned against the wooden barrier and watched with keen eyes as Ser Barristan Selmy mounted his horse. His opponent was some hedge knight whose sigil she did not recognize, but he was at least thirty years younger than the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, if not more. Though Ser Barristan looked as strong as ever, she couldn’t help but wonder if his age would work against him in this tilt.

“Selmy will win,” a voice startled her as its owner leaned against the barrier next to her. She turned her head and frowned as she took in Ser Jaime, decked out in his golden Lannister armor instead of the white armor of the Kingsguard. He smirked at her, tilting his head towards where his commander was gripping his lance. “You appeared concerned.”

She hated how he could ooze arrogance even while leaning casually against the wooden barrier, absolutely comfortable and absolutely sure that he was better than everyone around him.

“I am certain Ser Barristan will prevail,” Brienne said coolly, if only to contradict his assertion that she had been less than certain. “Are you prepared for your next tilt, Ser Jaime?”

“Well, there’s nothing to really prepare _for_ ,” he replied airily. She hated how that smirk seemed to be permanently attached to his face. “There are a scarce few competitors who will actually present a challenge, but those will not be until later today or during the semi-finals. The question, though, is are _you_ prepared for the melee tomorrow?”

She narrowed her eyes, unable to tell if he was genuinely interested or if he was looking for another opportunity to mock her. “I am more than prepared, ser.”

“I am sure you are,” he said, his perfect white teeth gleaming as he smiled at her. They both looked at the lists as the sound of Ser Barristan’s lance breaking on the hedge knight’s armor was heard. Brienne wasn’t quick enough to see the hit, but she saw the nameless knight being dragged by his horse, one foot stuck in his stirrup.

“Tell me, why not try at the jousting?” Jaime asked, voice curious but not mocking. She did not trust it. “Surely you could do better than that fellow.”

She scowled and did not answer. The truth was that her father had not allowed her to train with a lance. Lord Tarth had been adamant that the joust was too dangerous, having seen too many of men killed by an ill-placed blow.

“There’s certainly more glory in the joust,” he continued. “If you wanted to prove your sex’s worth, surely the lists would be the best place to do so.”

Brienne glowered at him. “I do not fight to prove the worth of my sex,” she declared, affronted at the insinuation. “I fight to prove only _my_ worth. Anything more is mere arrogance, something I am sure you are well-acquainted with.”

She pushed away from the barrier and strode away. To her utmost frustration, though, Ser Jaime followed on her heels.

“What an admirable attitude,” he told her with a laugh. “And here I was thinking that you had some ridiculous notion of setting an _example_. People like that are completely insufferable. Thank the gods you are far more selfish than that.”

Brienne rounded on him at that and glared. “I do not fight out of selfish desires,” she stated haughtily. “I am a true knight. I fight for the weak and the innocent, for women and children, for honor and justice. Unlike _you_ , Kingslayer,” she spat, whirling around and walking away, hating that his laughter followed after her.

“I believe you have to a knight to be a _true_ knight,” his mocking voice called out to her as she left, stalking through the spectators and heading towards the inn she was staying at.

He didn’t matter, she told herself harshly, thinking of the sword on her wrist. Only _they_ mattered.

But why did his words have to cut her so deeply?

tbc…


	12. Chapter Twelve

Robb was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming because Jon was with him, and Jon was all the way in King’s Landing. It felt so real that his heart _ached_ at the knowledge that it wasn’t. He raised his hand to touch Jon’s cheek, the warm skin almost making him believe that Jon really was with him. A strangled noise of hurt wrenched from his throat when dream-Jon’s hand came up to cover his own.

“I wish you were here,” he said, unable to look away from those dark grey eyes that he loved so much.

“I wish I were, too,” Jon whispered, leaning into Robb’s touch. “Robb, I’m so scared,” he confessed, tears welling in his eyes. “I’m trying to be strong, but every second I’m around the king, I’m terrified he’ll find out who I am.”

He pulled his bonded into his arms, needing to comfort him. Despite knowing that this dream-Jon’s fears were merely his own fears being reflected onto his bonded, Robb could not stand to see him so upset.

“You are strong,” he murmured, moving his hand up tangle into Jon’s curls and held him tight. He closed his eyes as he buried his nose in Jon’s neck and breathed in his scent. He would give anything for this to be real. “Jon, you are so brave.”

Jon shoulders shook, and Robb was horrified to realize he was crying. He hated his mind for conjuring up the image of Jon crying. “Robb, I can’t let him find out,” Jon said, voice breaking. “If he does, you’ll all be labeled traitors. I don’t care what he does to me, but I can’t let him hurt you.”

“Don’t say that,” Robb said, pulling back to give Jon a pained look. “I care what he does to you. Jon, you have to come back to me. You promised.”

His bonded swallowed thickly and nodded. “I did. And I _will_ come back to you. The tournament will be over soon, and the second it is, I will ride for Winterfell.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Robb vowed, leaning his forehead against Jon’s. “I love you, and I will always be waiting for you.”

Jon gave him a watery smile. “I love you, too, and I’ll always come back to you.”

Robb wasn’t sure which one of them moved first, but suddenly they were kissing, hands gripping tunics desperately. He groaned as Jon pulled him on top of him and arched into him. He swallowed Jon’s moan as he pressed him more firmly into the bed before kissing his way down his bonded’s neck.

“Robb,” Jon sighed, bringing his hand up to fist in Robb’s hair as he latched onto a patch of skin just above his clavicle.

Something tugged at the back of his mind, but Robb tried to push it away, not wanting to leave Jon just yet.

“No,” he cried in despair as he felt himself being pulled away. Jon gave a noise of protest as he tried to reach for Robb, but it was too late.

Robb woke to a knocking at a door and with Jon’s name on his lips, heart sinking as he realized his bonded was still leagues away in King’s Landing.

The knock came again, and he rose hastily, throwing on his dressing gown and cursing whatever it was that pulled him from his dreams of Jon.

“My lord,” Ser Rodrik greeted him as soon as he opened the door. “Apologies for waking you, but the guards caught a group of Night’s Watch deserters and wildings attempting to raid the food stores of Winter Town. All but one were killed. What do you wish be done to her?”

Robb frowned. More deserters? And with wildings too. And so bold as to attempt to raid Winter Town? 

“Bring her to the Great Hall. I will be there shortly to question her,” he told him, sighing as he closed the door behind him and leaned against it heavily. He did not think this boded well for the North, and he suddenly felt the full weight of his responsibility as Lord of Winterfell settle on his shoulders.

He wasn’t meant to bear this burden alone, he thought angrily. Jon was meant to be by his side, to counsel him, to support him, to tell him when he was being an idiot. He was supposed to _be_ here. He cursed the king silently for keeping him away.

A nudge at his arm broke him out of his thoughts. He looked down to see Ghost staring up at him with a knowing red stare. He gave the direwolf a sad smile and placed a hand on his head. “You miss him, too, don’t you, boy? He’ll be home soon. He promised he’d come back.”

Grey Wind padded over to nudge at Robb’s other arm with a huff. Robb couldn’t help but be amused at his direwolf. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous,” he said teasingly, laying his other hand on Grey Wind’s head. “If you’re this jealous of Ghost, just wait until Jon gets back.”

Robb’s smile slipped from his face as his mind once again went the void left in his life by Jon’s absence. He shook thoughts of Jon away. He couldn’t think about him right now. Not when he had to fill his father’s giant shoes and be Lord of Winterfell.

He dressed quickly and went to the Great Hall. His mother, Maester Luwin, and Ser Rodrik were waiting for him outside of it. He nodded to them to enter the way he had seen his father do a thousand times. 

His mother caught his eye and gave him an approving look as she strode proudly into the room behind the maester. Ever since Jon had left, she had been pushing him to take a more prominent role in the ruling of Winterfell. Robb knew she was doing it in some misguided attempt to apologize for sending Jon away, but she didn’t seem to realize that it just made the absence of his bonded ache more.

Focusing on the matter of hand, he walked into the Great Hall with his head held high and took his father’s seat, looking down impassively at the unkempt woman in chains between two guards. She immediately dropped to her knees before him.

“M’lord of Stark,” she said with her head bowed. “Give me my life, and I am yours.”

“And what would I want with a wilding woman who keeps company with oathbreakers?” he asked imperiously. Internally, he cringed at the idea of executing a woman, but he made sure that none of his distaste showed on his face.

Her head snapped up, and she glared at him. “You keep the company you have to for survival, m’lord,” she replied coldly. “And them crows saved my other half’s life before we got over the Wall.”

Robb frowned. “Saved his life from what?”

“The White Walkers,” she declared with a serious look in her eyes. “They’re coming, m’lord. That great tall Wall might slow them down, but not for long.”

“I’m have no use for ghost tales, wench,” Robb told her harshly, masking how on edge her words made him. “And if you were traveling with your bonded, I am not sure you can be trusted to live when my men killed the rest of your company.”

She shook her head before looking down once more. “Band died during the climb, m’lord. I hold no grudge for the deaths of the rest of them.”

He stared down at her for a few moments, letting the silence weigh heavily in the room. “Ser Rodrik,” he said finally, coming to a decision. “Take her to a cell tonight. Tomorrow, she will tell you everything about the wildings movements beyond the Wall. If you are satisfied that she tells the truth, she may be allowed to live.”

His mother gave him a disbelieving look as soon as Ser Rodrik and the guards left with the wilding woman. “You can’t possibly believe that there are Others beyond the Wall.”

“There was no lie in her eyes, my lady,” Maester Luwin commented. “Though I must admit, the tale does seem far-fetched.” 

“If nothing else, she’ll be able to shed light on the unusual amount of wildings that have been seen south of the Gift,” Robb stated. “And she may be able to tell us more about Mance Rayder’s movements. I’m sure Lord Commander Mormont would be interested in whatever information we can gather.”

With the recent wilding sightings and the deserters that had been discovered, Robb was certain that the situation on the Wall was worse than they knew. He thanked the gods that his soulmark had come in before Jon had taken the black. The thought was his bonded freezing on the Wall was bad enough, but with the wildings becoming bolder, he wanted Jon nowhere near the attacks.

Though he was probably not much safer in King’s Landing, he thought darkly.

“I’ll be in the godswood if I am needed,” Robb told them with a sigh before the matter could be discussed anymore.

If he couldn’t protect Jon, he would beg the gods to keep him safe.

 

#

 

Jaime resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he leaned against the wall in Cersei’s solar. She and Varys were seated at her table, wine and cheese before them, making small talk about the little tidbits of information he had gleaned from his little birds, both skirting the topic that the entire meeting was meant to be about, playing a pointless game that annoyed Jaime almost as much as the topic they were avoiding.

Jon Stark. Gods, why was there so much fuss over a boy who, as far as Jaime could tell, just wanted to run home to be with his bonded? It sang with stupidity.

“Lord Stark is very careful to not arouse the suspicions of the king, I am sorry to say,” Varys was saying in a false casual tone. Did anyone _actually_ fall for the Spider’s platitudes? “There is a secret that he and his nephew are very careful to not say aloud even in the privacy of the Hand’s Tower.”

Jaime saw a light of triumph enter his sister’s eyes. “Do they plot against Robert?” she asked, barely masking her eagerness. Jaime didn’t resist rolling his eyes at that. Ned Stark was loyal to a fault. He would never plot against Robert.

Varys confirmed as much a moment later. “The Hand is steadfast in his loyalty to the king. He does, however, have misgivings about your Grace and her family.”

That was hardly new information, Jaime thought with an internal scoff. Ned Stark had never liked any of the Lannisters, and Jaime was sure that, had he been on speaking terms with Robert when Jon Arryn had suggested Robert’s marriage to Cersei, then the marriage would never have happened. 

“So it is a secret that Robert wouldn’t care about but we would,” Cersei surmised, a thoughtful look on her lovely face.

“A secret about Jon Stark’s parentage,” Varys agreed mildly. “Your Grace was correct in your suspicions.”

A smug smile spread across Cersei’s face, but Jaime couldn’t help but think that Varys had told her absolutely nothing. They already knew that Ned Stark had lied about his nephew’s parents, and they already knew that Stark was loyal to the king but not to them. What exactly had they learned?

“Have you found out _who_ his parents are?” Jaime spoke up to ask.

Varys gave him a mournful look. “I am afraid not, Ser Jaime. At first, I suspected that he could be the trueborn son of Brandon Stark and Lord Stark hid it to remain Lord of Winterfell, but our records indicate that Brandon’s soulmate was Catelyn Tully.”

“Perhaps he is Brandon’s bastard,” Cersei suggested, eyes lighting up at her own cleverness. 

“Perhaps,” Varys said in a considering tone. “If he were Brandon’s, he would be a threat to Ned and his children even if he were a bastard because Brandon was the eldest. It fits with the secrecy.”

It did not, Jaime thought in displeasure. Varys knew as well as he did that it didn’t fit with why the Starks were being so secretive in King’s Landing. None of them gave a flying fart if Jon Stark was the son of Brandon Stark, trueborn or otherwise. The Stark bannermen might care, but not with Jon bonded to Robb Stark. No rebellion was going to be raised in Jon’s name when he and Robb were a package deal.

Jaime was half a second from opening his mouth to say as much before he paused. Varys knew all of this. He had to be aware that the explanation Cersei had posited made no sense.

But he had agreed with her.

For her part, Cersei was content to believe her own tale and showed Varys to the door shortly thereafter, not noticing the thoughtful frown on her brother’s face.

He couldn’t work it out. The Spider, he knew, was hardly trustworthy, and he had long suspected that he kept the largest secrets he discovered to himself until the right moment came along, but could what Ned Stark was hiding really be that big? Or was Varys just as puzzled as they were but wanted to maintain his all-knowing visage?

Jaime once again cursed Jon Stark for his existence. Now the boy had even gotten _him_ curious as to his identity.

 

#

 

“Mind your feet, Arya!” Jon’s voice rang over the clacking of the wooden swords in the Small Hall. “You’re telling Gendry exactly where you will strike next!”

Sansa frowned as she watched Arya’s face pucker in concentration as she tried to follow Jon’s advice. She cried out in dismay, though, as her concentration allowed Gendry to disarm her, glaring up at him with a pout.

“It’s not fair!” she cried petulantly. “He’s _bigger_ than me!”

Jon rolled his eyes as he picked up the wooden sword and tossed it back to her. “Most of your opponents will be bigger than you,” he told her. “You’ve got to learn how to defend yourself against them. Even you’re good enough, you can use their size against them. Now, again!”

“Your sister is quite dedicated,” Margaery commented at her side, giving Sansa a little grin. “I’m not sure I would persist if all my efforts were rewarded with defeat.”

Sansa smiled. She had been a bit leery initially when Margaery first suggested they watch Gendry and Arya’s training today, but she was glad she gave in. It was nice, she decided, being able to sit and talk with Margaery while the others trained. Though they were all doing things they enjoyed, they were still together.

“Arya can be stubborn when she wants,” she replied, looking back to her sister fondly. They had settled back into the tentative friendship they had had on their journey to King’s Landing. Though she couldn’t be sure, Sansa suspected that she had Jon to thank for that. “And she’s always like swords and adventures over more ladylike pursuits.”

That had once driven Sansa crazy. Arya’s antics had spoiled her playing as a child. In her playacting, Arya was supposed to be one of her ladies-in-waiting. They were supposed to be graceful and delicate and oh-so-very polite.

Arya had never been _any_ of those things, and Sansa had _hated_ it. It wasn’t until their journey south that she had begun to appreciate it.

She was broken out of her thoughts by Arya’s voice. “ _Stop_ taking it easy on me!”

Gendry had a stubborn look on his face that was almost the rival of Arya’s. “I’m not going to _hurt_ you, Arya,” he declared sullenly.

“And what about when I’m fighting someone who _will_?” she shot back heatedly.

His eyes narrowed at that. “You’re not gonna be fighting somebody like that!”

“I will if I want!” 

“That’s enough!” Jon cut in before things could get any more heated. He shot them both a withering glare that reminded Sansa vividly of her father. “You’re both here to learn how to fend off an opponent who wants to hurt you,” he said firmly, shooting Gendry a level stare before turning it on Arya. “But neither of you will go _looking_ for such an opponent just to prove a point. Now, again.”

“Lord Jon is a good teacher,” Margaery commented. “But he looks so sad today.”

Sansa sighed. She knew exactly what her friend meant. Jon’s eyes had been full of sorrow ever since he appeared at breakfast this morning.

“He misses Robb,” she replied sadly. “Sleep makes it worse, he says, because he keeps dreaming of being with Robb and waking up disappointed. I feel horrible because I am so glad Jon is here with us, but he’s so miserable.”

Margaery gave her a sympathetic look. “It’s not a bad thing to want your brother with you or to enjoy his company. You are not keeping him here.”

“No, the king is,” Sansa remarked bitterly. “I don’t know why he insists on Jon being his squire. He’s very selfish.”

The other girl snorted delicately at that and smirked at her. “He’s a man with power. All men with power are selfish.”

“Not my father!” she protested. “And Robb and Jon won’t be either!”

“Jon won’t have power,” Margaery pointed out. “He’ll just be bonded to someone with power.”

“No,” Sansa told her with a shake of her head. “Robb might be the one who will be Lord of Winterfell, but he and Jon will share the power,” she said with certainty. “They share _everything_ ,” she added with a roll of her eyes. “Robb would never raise himself above Jon.”

“He doesn’t have to,” Margaery replied. “His birthright does.”

“And Robb won’t care,” she said matter-of-factly, smiling at the confused pucker of the other girl’s brow. “It’s partly the northern way, but also partly just Robb and Jon. Even when Mother used to try to get Robb to act his station, he’d just drag Jon along with him. That’s how I want to be with my bonded. A complete equal.”

Sansa frowned suddenly as she observed Arya and Gendry’s sparring. Even she could tell that Gendry was still taking it easy on Arya. Could a man ever treat a woman as his equal, she wondered. 

She watched as Arya took advantage of Gendry’s consideration and brought her sword down harshly on his wrist, causing him to drop the training sword. A surprised laugh tore from Sansa’s throat, catching Margaery’s eyes as she laughed as well.

Arya smirked as Gendry rubbed his injured risk with a scowl. “Are you ready to stop taking it easy on me?”

A stubborn look crossed his face as he bent to pick up the wooden sword. Sansa suspected that he would think twice about underestimating her sister again.

She gazed across the hall to catch Jon looking at the two with a sad and wistful expression on his face. Before she could consider that, though, Margaery looped her arm through hers and leaned closer, the clacks of the swords hitting each other louder now that Gendry was sparring in earnest.

“I think your sister might have met her match in being stubborn,” her friend commented with a chuckle.

It was with a sinking heart that Sansa suddenly understood. Arya _had_ met her match.

Gendry was _Arya’s_ soulmate.

Not hers.

Which meant she would be stuck marrying Joffrey as soon as she came of age.

tbc…


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Jaime cursed his brother’s penchant for never being around when he needed him. He had searched every brothel within a couple miles of the Red Keep. Tyrion would not have ventured further. Not because he had any sort of discretion or didn’t wish to displease his sister, but because the choicest brothels all lay close to the Keep. The further out one went, the uglier the whores got, and Tyrion always did like pretty things.

If his brother wasn’t whoring, he must be drinking. And though Tyrion typically did both in the same place, he must have graced one of the taverns with his presence that night.

Jaime had little luck at the first two he checked, though it was difficult to tell with the crowds there for the tournament. A few cups were pressed into his hands at each tavern by intoxicated patrons who cheered on the Kingslayer with wild laughs, but he set them down each time untouched.

It wasn’t until the third tavern that he got lucky.

Not that he found Tyrion there. No, this establishment was a bit smaller and more subdued than the type Tyrion would frequent unless he were in a melancholy mood. There were people at each table, of course. There had to be with all the people in the city for the tourney, but they were a more serious lot. Older gentlemen, solemn ladies. It was an inn that housed the more wealthy citizens who did not own a manse in the city.

Sitting in a corner alone was Brienne of Tarth.

Jaime couldn’t say why he approached her. In terms of height and gender, she was practically the exact opposite of what he was looking for. Maybe it was her ridiculous claim of being a true knight. Maybe it was her naive sense of honor. Maybe it was the fact that she had absolutely no agenda.

Whatever it was, he decided that it would at least be amusing to ask.

“I have a riddle for you, wench,” he stated arrogantly as he slid into the seat across from her.

She looked up from contemplating her drink and glowered at him. “My name is Brienne.”

“Why would a loyal servant tell a lie to his lord?” Jaime continued, ignoring her comment.

“To avoid punishment for a transgression,” she replied haughtily, glaring at him as if it would make him leave.

Jaime rolled his eyes. “But that’s not the _honorable_ thing to do.”

It was a stupid answer, he decided dismissively, waiving a serving wench down and ordering a pint of ale. How could Jon Stark be a transgression that Robert would punish Stark for? Why would Robert care who the boy’s parents were? Robert barely cared who his _own_ children were. 

Brienne’s mouth twisted in displeasure as she realized he wasn’t leaving. “Perhaps your loyal servant isn’t honorable.”

Jaime snorted derisively at that. “That is the least likely scenario,” he replied. Ned Stark was _nothing_ if not honorable. Insufferably so. “What would you sacrifice your honor for?” he asked, figuring her answer, as someone nearly as insufferable as Stark about _honor_ , might be illuminating.

She narrowed her eyes. “You are mocking me.”

“Why is that always your first instinct?” he asked, not knowing why it upset him. It’s not like this stupid woman _mattered_. “I am genuinely curious. _Would_ you sacrifice your honor if it were important enough?”

Brienne glared at him for a few more heartbeats before her face took on a thoughtful look. Jaime decided that the expression didn’t suit her, but kept quiet about the observation. He nodded his thanks to the serving wench as she brought his ale.

“To save the life of someone I loved,” she replied after the serving wench had gone.

The answer was obvious and unsatisfying. Who would Ned Stark love that Robert would want to kill? Who would Stark love that Robert wouldn’t protect for his childhood friend’s sake? Seven hells, the only person Robert had ever cared about more than Ned Stark was…

He froze with his cup half raised to his lips, the answer slamming into him as hard as Robert’s warhammer had slammed into Rhaegar Targaryen.

Lyanna Stark.

Gods, it was so obvious. Of every Stark that had been posited as the boy’s parent, Lyanna was the only one never mentioned. Despite the fact that Jon Stark looked _just like_ Lyanna Stark. Robert had said as much himself. Of course, he favored Ned Stark as well, which is probably why no one had ever questioned that Jon was Lord Stark’s bastard.

Robert would hate that Lyanna gave someone other than him a babe. And if she had died in childbirth, as was the likely scenario, he would hate the babe for killing her.

But that wasn’t the entire story.

His mind flashed to a silver dragon harp surrounded by blue flowers standing out starkly on pale skin. To the crown of blue winter roses they said Rhaegar gave Lyanna Stark at Harrenhal. To stories that told tales of Rhaegar stealing Lyanna because he was madly in love with her and wanted her all to himself. To his white brothers dying defending the tower where Lyanna Stark was found.

Ned Stark had been harboring Rhaegar Targaryen’s only living son and heir in the North for seventeen years, and no one had even batted an eye.

“Ser Jaime?” Brienne’s voice broke through his realizations, causing him to focus on her once more, his shock making him once more admire her sapphire blue eyes. “Are you well?”

He shook his head. “Just lost in thought,” he said, brushing off what he was surprised to see was her genuine concern. “Thank you, Brienne. You’ve opened my eyes to the obvious answer. Now, I must go. The king and queen need to be told.” _Cersei_ needed to be told.

“Wait,” she said, reading out her hand to stop him from leaving, the sleeve of her tunic slipping up slightly to reveal her wrist. Her _left_ wrist.

He sat down heavily in his seat, stunned at the sight and all thoughts of Jon Stark, Rhaegar Targaryen, and Cersei leaving his head. There, sitting innocuously on this strange, ugly woman’s wrist, was _his_ soulmark.

Nothing seemed to make sense anymore.

“If this honorable and loyal man sacrificed his honor and lied to his liege to save the life of someone he loved, you should _honor_ that sacrifice,” Brienne was saying, none the wiser to Jaime’s inner disquiet.

This is why honor was a fool’s game, Jaime thought in derision. _Honor_ called for him to betray the vows he swore to _honor_ as a member of the Kingsguard, when he swore to protect the king from all treason.

_Honor_ had demanded that he protect the innocent from the king he had sworn to _honor_ and protect.

_Honor_ had made him stay silent as the king had _raped_ his sister queen.

_Honor_ had made him stay at that king’s side instead of protecting Prince Rhaegar’s wife and children like he promised…

That last one caused a pang of guilt to shoot through him. He hadn’t thought his father’s men would murder Elia and her children the way that they did. Perhaps it had been foolish to believe that Tywin wouldn’t have killed Aegon, but Elia and Rhaenys should have been safe, _would_ have been safe in the Mountain hadn’t been such a brute.

Now another, previous unknown, child of Rheagar had been revealed to him, and honor was once again pulling him in multiple directions. How was he supposed to know what was _right_?

Brienne was giving him a look that was both expectant and disappointed, already assuming Jaime would disregard her words and go to the king and queen anyway. He _should_. He owed Ned Stark nothing, and he didn’t owe Brienne of Tarth anything either, soulmate or not. And he certainly didn’t owe _Jon_ _Stark_ a blasted thing either.

He wanted to prove her wrong, though. Wanted to show her that she _didn’t_ know him. And maybe, a part of him that he didn’t want to acknowledge whispered, maybe he didn’t want her to be disappointed in him.

“Perhaps I’ll keep my silence for now,” he said flippantly. She gave him a surprised look, and he smirked in triumphant, despite the queasy feeling of unease in his stomach. “I do have some _honor_ , you know, even if it’s a ridiculous concept.”

There was that glare that so commonly graced her face. He was startled to realize that he had become _fond_ of it. He finished his ale and stood, throwing a few silver stags on the table and walking away without another word.

He strode wordlessly to his chamber in the White Sword Tower, shutting himself inside and barring the door so as to not have to see anyone.

It was easy to rationalize his silence about Jon Stark’s parentage in his head. It wasn’t _really_ treason, he told himself. Ned Stark would never conspire to place the boy on the throne. Not with how loyal he was to Robert. And a blind man could see that all Jon Stark wanted was to run back home to his bonded in Winterfell. His _male_ bonded who would never bear him children.

There was no danger to the throne, and it couldn’t be treason.

What bothered him move was betraying Cersei. Not by keeping quiet about Jon Stark, but because he had found his _soulmate_.

Cersei would throw a fit if she knew someone else had a claim on Jaime which she could not match. Jaime was sure his sister would do anything in her power to ensure that Brienne met a painful end if she knew.

He groaned as he realized that he actually _cared_. 

He had had far too many realizations this night, he decided as he stripped himself and fell into bed. The world had become far too complicated within the span of an hour’s time, and he wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to do going forward.

 

#

 

Jon was fairly certain that he had never felt more uncomfortable in his life. He was lingering in the king’s solar as the man was entertaining at least five women. His face burned as he heard a high-pitched squeal, not wanting to know what was happening in the king’s bedchambers to draw such sounds.

He was luckier than Lancel, he knew. The blond squire was standing in the corridor just outside the king’s bedchambers, ready to jump if Robert should require anything. Not only were the sounds sure to be louder, but Lancel had to listen while standing next to the stoic Ser Barristan, no doubt compounding on the awkwardness of the situation.

The door to the king’s solar opened unceremoniously, causing Jon to jump to his feet, unsure as to who would presume to enter without knocking. He got his answer a moment later in the form of Renly Baratheon.

“Lord Jon,” the king’s brother greeted, giving him a commiserating look. “I suppose my brother is making his squires wile around while he does his whoring.”

Jon gave him a grateful smile, glad for the distraction from the noise coming from the king’s chambers. “To be fair, my lord, he did offer to share his company with us. Lancel was tempted, but I declined for both of us.”

In truth, Jon’s adamant “no” had been out of his mouth far too quickly to allow his fellow squire to consider the offer. He had barely managed to tack on a “your grace,” before the king was roaring with laughter, slapping him on his back as he commended Jon for his loyalty to his soulmate. 

He had barely suppressed an eye-roll at that. He would have refused even if Robb hadn’t been in the picture, though maybe not as vehemently.

Renly gave him an understanding smile. “Robert doesn’t understand the bond between two soulmates or how wrong the idea of being with another person can feel. I know that I am dreading the day where I will have to take a wife to provide Storm’s End with an heir. Loras is dreading it even more, I’m afraid, as I’m sure you are with Lord Robb.”

“Robb will not take a wife,” Jon replied with certainty. They had discussed it soon after they had moved into the same bedchamber, one of the many topics they stayed up discussing late into the night.

Heirs had been a topic that Jon had wanted to avoid as long as possible, terrified at the idea that some unknown wife would drive a wedge between them, but he knew that it would gnaw at him until he brought it up. Robb, though, had been quick to tell him that he had enough siblings that he saw need for him to take a wife.

“What about you?” Renly asked, giving Jon an oddly curious look.

Jon frowned. “I have no need for an heir.”

That wasn’t exactly true, Robb had told him when he had answered the same question with him, reminding him that he was the Targaryen heir and might have need to pass that name along. Jon had just shook the notion away. He was a _Stark_ , not a Targaryen. He would never be anything but a Stark.

Renly studied him for a few moments before smiling brightly. “You are both lucky, then,” he said. “Whomever I take to wife will surely hate the position,” he added mournfully. “Loras will hate her with a passion for sharing my bed, and I will resent her for Loras’ sake.”

“Perhaps you can find a respectable lady with a female soulmate,” Jon suggested. “That is the common solution in the North. Lord Cerwyn’s bonded and wife get along well enough because his bonded knows Lady Cerwyn has her own soulmate, and they all act as parents to their children.”

“I must say, I admire you Northerners for your openness when it comes to your soulmates,” Renly replied with a smirk and a shake of his head. “Perhaps the political atmosphere of the South would not be as poisonous if we took the same approach.”

His smile became a bit forced as the words reminded Jon that the man before him, no matter how affable or commiserating, was _not_ his friend, but a political player that, like all the players in the South, rarely took an action without a purpose.

What had been the purpose of this conversation?

He couldn’t help agonizing over the question long after Renly had taken his leave, but he couldn’t find an answer. Jon had told him nothing but that neither he nor Robb intended to take a wife and have sons of their own, planning instead to make their siblings and their children their heirs.

Surely that was neither surprising nor particularly useful information to Renly Baratheon?

tbc…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope that wasn't too clumsily done. So many reveals in one chapter! Poor Jaime!


End file.
